


Inktober for Writers

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Defenders (Marvel TV), due South
Genre: "You're so corny", (Canadian Thanksgiving), (because that's my favourite made-up tag), Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Anti-HYDRA!Cap, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Battle Fluff, Bickering, Breakfast, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bullying, Captain America Sam Wilson, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Comfort Sex, Domestic Avengers, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Found Family, Ghosts, Handfasting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inappropriate Doodles, Insomnia, Karaoke, Kid Fic, Laundry, Mild Misogyny, Missing Scene, Multi, Never Have I Ever, Pining, Sam Wilson Can Talk to Birds, Slice of Life, Thanksgiving, Trigger warning for sexual assault flashback in ch. 20, Weddings, boys being soft, more wedding stuff, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-10 01:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12288042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: A collection of short fics written in response to the Inktober for Writers prompts. Specific relationships & relevant tags are found in the summary of each chapter.





	1. Searching

**Author's Note:**

> **Chapter Breakdown:**
> 
> 1\. Sam/Steve, pre-slash, CACW missing scene; G  
> 2\. Sam/Steve/Bucky, established relationship; G  
> 3\. Sam/Riley, past; G  
> 4\. Sam & Bucky, CACW missing scene; G  
> 5\. Sam/Steve & Tony/Rhodey (background); T  
> 6\. Sam/Steve, kid fic, Cap Sam; G  
> 7\. Fraser/Ray K, post-series; G  
> 8\. Sam/Steve; G  
> 9\. Sam/Natasha, CACW missing scene; M  
> 10\. Sam/Bucky, Cap Sam; M  
> 11\. Steve/Sharon, future fic, angst; T  
> 12\. Sam/Steve/Bucky, kid fic, Sam can talk to birds; G  
> 13\. Sam/Steve & Natasha/Sharon, karaoke, alcohol, no powers; T  
> 14\. Sam/Steve, AoU missing scene; T  
> 15\. Gen, found family; G  
> 16\. Gen, anti-HYDRA!Cap; T  
> 17\. Natasha/Sharon, wedding; G  
> 18\. Sam/Steve, delayed sexual gratification; M  
> 19\. Gen, vampire!Steve; T  
> 20\. Sam & Wanda, CACW missing scene, trigger warning for sexual assault flashback; M  
> 21\. Gen, set during CATWS, character reflection (Sam); T  
> 22\. Steve/Peggy, pre-romance, CATFA missing scene; warning for mild misogyny; T  
> 23\. Sam/Bucky, battle fluff, bickering, Cap Sam; T  
> 24\. Sam/Steve, bed-sharing, antiquing, unexpected revelations; G  
> 25\. Sam & Steve, pre-slash, Pixar movies; G  
> 26\. Sam & Steve, insomnia; G  
> 27\. Luke/Claire, fluff; G  
> 28\. Sam/Steve, fluff; G  
> 29\. Natasha/Sharon/Maria, wedding planning; G  
> 30\. Sam/Steve (background); T  
> 31\. Sam/Steve, laundry, no powers; G  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve, pre-slash, CACW missing scene; G

“And when we find him, what then?”

Steve closes his eyes, not to think, not because he needs to gather himself, but because Sam’s words cut him to the quick. He knows, he _knows_ the day is coming when he’ll have to stand in front of the world and offer them something. People are searching for answers, they need to know that they’re safe, that they can trust the heroes in whom they’ve put their faith. The Accords can help, but at what cost?

Bucky’s life — if Sharon is right. That’s the cost. Because Steve didn’t sign, and now he has no authorization to go in and talk them down. He refused to sign so he could keep his freedom, and now his hands are tied.

 _Hell of a thing, ain’t it,_ he can almost hear Bucky saying, the way he would when they were listening to Philips brief them on a mission, or the way he would when they heard the neighbors arguing at 1AM every goddamned night in that shitty tenement in Brooklyn.

 _It's a hell of a thing,_ he agrees silently. He opens his eyes, meets Sam’s waiting gaze.

“Sam,” he says, because he can and because he wants to. He likes the taste of Sam’s name in his mouth and he wishes— but there’s no time for that right now. “When we find him, he keep him alive. Simple as that.”

“Simple,” Sam repeats, but he’s not mocking. “We looked for him for two years, what makes you think we’ll find him now?”

Steve’s phone goes off before he can say, “I don’t know,” or even, “Trust me.” He glances down; it’s Sharon, and she’s sent him an address.

He smiles for what feels like the first time since he got the news about Peggy. He angles the phone in Sam’s direction, sees his tense posture ease somewhat.

“Because this time we have help,” Steve says. He grabs his hat and tosses Sam his. “Let’s go.”


	2. Barefoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve/Bucky, established relationship; G

The smell of bacon woke him up. He extracted himself from the tangle of blankets currently wrapped around his ankles — the dangers of being a middle sleeper — and set his feet on the freezing floor. He wondered if it was actually as cold as it felt, or if his circulation was just bad, or if — well, he tended to get cold pretty easily. It was kind of his thing, after all.

Barefoot, he hissed his way over to the dresser and creaked open the top drawer, where he found the thickest, warmest socks he could. He balanced himself with his new hand against the wall to pull them on one at a time. Still shivering, despite the socks, he crossed the room again to the closet. He felt the sleeves of each hanging garment with his old hand until he found the plush cashmere he was seeking and pulled it on over his head.

He could hear talking now — and laughing — from the kitchen. Sam was saying something about musical theatre and Steve was definitely holding an indefensible position. Bucky smiled and eased the bedroom door open, then headed down the hall, silent by accident. _Old habits,_ he thought, but he had to shove it away before his brain went too far down that path and decided to show him some of his other habits.

It was colder out here, and he found himself hurrying a little, following the warm glow of the kitchen light and the smell of bacon. And the laughter too, of course.

“There you are,” Sam said, looking up from the stove when Bucky walked in. “Thought you’d be up the second we left.”

“Why?” Bucky asked, his voice still rusty with sleep.

“Heat’s out,” Steve explained with an apologetic wince. He was loading the toaster, since that was pretty much the only kitchen appliance he could be trusted with.

So it wasn’t just him, Bucky thought. _Good to know._

“Clearly you adapted,” Sam said with an amused look — top to bottom. “Steve’s sweater, my pyjama pants, and one of each of our socks. That’s quite the fashion statement, Barnes.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said  dryly. He went to the stove and rubbed his hands together over the popping pan of bacon. “That’s better,” he sighed.

Steve’s hand handed on his back a second later, moving up and down in a slow, firm stroke. “Somebody’s coming to fix the heat in an hour,” he reported.

“Good,” said Bucky.

“Till then I guess we’ll just have to keep each other warm,” Sam declared. He bumped his hip into Bucky’s, shifting him to the side, so he could turn off the stove.

Bucky made a small sound of protest, but a second later, Sam transferred the bacon to a plate. Bucky snagged a still-sizzling piece with his metal hand and blew on it. He popped it into his mouth and closed his eyes as he chewed blissfully.

“Not fair,” said Steve, but he stayed close to Bucky while Sam crowded in on his other side with a carton of eggs.

“I know,” Bucky replied, but he grabbed a piece for him, and one for Sam, too. He traded them for kisses that made his cheeks flush despite the cold, and by the time Sam started cracking eggs, Bucky felt truly warm.


	3. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Riley, past; G

By the time Sam got outside, the day’s last warmth was seeping away, as the sun sank quickly below the horizon. The tops of the trees in the park across the street were golden in the light, their changing colors a sharp contrast to the darkening sky.  Sam shivered slightly and drew his coat a little more tightly around his shoulders. The trees shook in the cool wind, and loose leaves skittered along the sidewalk, crunching under Sam’s feet.

He looked up and down the street in the fading light — it was practically deserted, except for a little old lady waiting for the bus, and a few teenagers on the opposite corner playing hacky sack.

Which was weird, because Sam could have sworn there was a man in front of the building when he first stepped out. He saw him, noticed the glint of red in his blonde hair, the cargo pants and blue sneakers that he always wore when—

 _Never mind,_ Sam told himself. It would do him no good to embellish glimpses of strangers and turn them into... well.

Sam turned the corner, walking briskly in the direction of his apartment. Three times he wanted to look over his shoulder; three times he thought he saw someone in the corner of his eye, keeping pace with him, chasing him, challenging him the way they used to in the air.

But Sam didn’t turn around. He didn’t look, not even once. And when a set of footsteps followed him up to the stairs to his apartment, he unlocked the door and gestured politely.

“After you, Ri,” he said.

And he was sure the brush of cold air whispered, _Thanks._


	4. Compliment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam & Bucky, CACW missing scene; G

“Can you move your seat up?”

“No.”

There’s a shuffle in the backseat. Sam watches him move out of the corner of his eye, catches Barnes’s mouth turning up. A second later he’s honest-to-God smirking.

“What’s so funny?” Sam asks him.

“Nothing,” says Barnes, but he’s practically quivering back there. Sam turns fully around and stares. Barnes’s laughter is threatening to break out, and Sam finds himself falling victim to it— his scowl is disappearing, much to his chagrin.

“Seriously, man, what the fuck,” he says, almost chuckling. “Are you cracking up?”

Barnes shakes his head, and the lid crumbles— he laughs. It’s quiet and breathy at first, but gaining strength.

 _Far cry from the Winter Soldier,_ Sam thinks, and to his own surprise, there’s a glimmer of relief in that — like the thought that there’s a man under all that history and pain and violence makes him giddy.

Abruptly, he thinks of Jerry, a young soldier who used to come to Sam’s Tuesday group. Zheng was his last name, Sam recalls, not that it really matters. That kid went weeks without saying a word, nodding and listening, his face grave and set like it’d been carved from stone. And then, one day, he’d smiled. The next time Sam saw him, he chuckled, just a little, and the time after that, Paul told a funny story about the desert, and Jerry just burst out laughing. He laughed until the tears were streaming down his unwrinkled cheeks like rain.

 _That’s what this is like,_ Sam thinks, watching Barnes laugh. And, for the first time, Sam thinks that maybe he might grow to like this Bucky guy who’s been underneath the Winter Soldier all this time.

But that still doesn’t mean he’s going to move his seat.

When Steve gets back in the car, he notices, because how could he not, with Barnes cackling like a loon and Sam grinning like an idiot in the front seat. “What’s so funny?” he asks, with some trepidation.

“Sam paid me a compliment,” Bucky says, and Sam just shakes his head.

 _Close enough,_ he thinks. _Close enough._


	5. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve & Tony/Rhodey (background); Avengers shenanigans; T

Sam still hasn’t quite figured out what to make of the Avengers. On the one hand, being part of the team is the hardest job he’s ever had; on the other hand, it’s also a lot like being in high school again. Everybody gossips about everybody behind their back — Natasha is the _worst_ , and she keeps dragging Sam into her drama — and there’s never any shortage of dick, fart, or puke jokes. (Rhodey has a lot that involve all three; _g-force hat tricks,_ he calls them.)

So it’s not a huge surprise when, one Wednesday night, Sam finds himself in Tony Stark’s living room, playing Never Have I Ever. In true high school spirit, Natasha wanted to play Spin The Bottle, but Thor, of all people, insisted. Apparently, way back when the Avengers first assembled, Tony had introduced him to the game, and Thor became quite taken with it. Now, whenever he visits, he brings enough Asgardian liquor for himself and Steve, and the Avengers get drunk and play.

Not a bad set-up, all in all, Sam thinks, taking a sip of not-Asgardian-but-definitely-expensive scotch. Steve sits down on the other side of the couch from him, carefully casual, but he raises his glass. Sam leans over to clink it, and they both drink.

He watches Steve’s Adam’s apple move as he swallows and pushes away a memory of last night. He still hasn’t quite figured out what to do about _that,_ either, and now’s not really the time to try and sort it out. Especially since Thor is sinking into the armchair that’s on Sam’s right, and Nat squeezes herself between Sam and Steve on the couch.

“Falcon,” Thor rumbles, “Newcomers boast first.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Sam says, caught off-guard. He glances again at Steve, and Steve’s eyes meet his for one second before they drop again. Sam isn’t sure if it’s fear — though Steve is one of the bravest men he’s ever met — or shame, but he has no idea what to say.

Images from the last several months flash in front of Sam’s eyes — he definitely knows some things that would force Steve to drink, but he doesn’t want to out Steve without permission. Nobody knows that they’ve been sleeping together since three months into The Great Bucky Hunt. Sam’s pretty sure that it started as a casual, stress-relief thing, but he can’t pretend that’s what it is anymore. For one thing, he can’t remember the last time they didn’t share a bed — for sex or otherwise — and for another, they’d snuck kisses in the elevator less than an hour ago, which isn’t something fuck-buddies tend to do.

“Do you pass?” Tony asks eagerly, jarring Sam out of his thoughts. “Because I have one if you don’t, and it’s one that I promise you’re gonna like.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but Rhodey beats him to the punch. “You’re like four people down the line, Tony,” he says. “If anyone gets to go next, it’s Nat.”

“That is, if he’s passing,” Natasha reminds them. “No pressure, Sam.”

“Thanks,” Sam says dryly. He thinks for another moment, glances at Steve, who isn’t looking, and the answer comes to him right away— something he can say that will make Steve drink, but won’t reveal anything they’ve done together. “Never have I ever had sex in a military vehicle,” he announces triumphantly.

Steve’s cheeks flush, but he takes a sip. To Sam’s surprise, Tony and Rhodey exchange something like a guilty look, and they drink, too. Neither Nat or Thor seem shocked by this, though Natasha gasps at Steve in fake outrage.

“Cap, how could you?”

Steve blushes harder. “In my defense—”

Thor’s booming laugh cuts him off. “There will be time enough for stories later,” he says. “Natasha?”

“All right,” Nat says agreeably. She shifts slightly in her position on the couch, and sets her vodka martini down on the coffee table. “Never have I ever had oral sex performed on me while I was driving— military vehicle or otherwise.”

Tony takes a drink that lasts a very long time. Rhodey rubs the back of his neck, the tips of his ears are dark. Nat’s smirk widens.

“My go?” Steve asks. Everyone nods. Steve sends Sam a quick, smug look. “Never have I ever performed oral sex on someone while they were driving— military vehicle or otherwise,” he adds hastily.

“Bastard,” Sam mutters, but he drinks, and so does Natasha and, after a second, Rhodey takes a sip, too. Sam feels his eyebrows go way up. He’s starting to think that maybe he’s not the only Avenger hooking up behind the team’s back.

“None of these match my experiences,” Thor complains, clearly oblivious to what Sam thinks he’s seeing. “James, say something that I can drink to.”

“You got it, big guy,” Rhodey says with a chuckle. “Okay, uh... here’s one you can relate to. Never have I ever had sex while _flying._ ”

“Oho!” Thor cries, and he takes a big swig of his mead.

Sam’s eyes widen, he looks at Steve and finds Steve looking back at him. He knows they’re thinking the exact same thing.

“Do planes count?” Natasha asks.

“Sure,” says Rhodey easily, but then he frowns. “In that case, I guess I’d better drink, too.”

Sam glances down at Steve’s drink, and, a second later, Steve shrugs one shoulder like, _what can you do?_ Sam nods, and together they take a drink.

He realizes too late that Natasha was watching them, and she wasn’t the only one.

“Falcon!” Rhodey scolds him. “How could you? Now, Cap, I understand — that adrenaline junkie jumps out of planes, so of course he’d fuck in one — but you? I thought you had enough sense to treat those wings I made you with respect.”

“I—” Sam starts, but Thor cuts him off.

“Surely you could have fallen, Samuel,” he says, a mixture of worry and awe in his voice.

“Did you?” Sam asks him sharply. His face is hot, but he goes on. “Why do you all assume this happened while I was flying with my wings? I could’ve been on a plane, same as any of you.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t,” says Steve, and then he slaps a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide and guilty on Sam.

“How would _you_ know?” Natasha asks after a second.

Everyone is looking at Steve now. He ducks his head to hide his red face and drinks more Asgardian mead. Sam shakes his head and reminds himself that when it comes to liquor that can actually affect him, Steve is still skinny and five-foot-nothing. The thought doesn’t bother him, though; in fact, he feels a rush of fondness for Steve, even as he forces himself to look away.

“Interesting,” says Tony, in that flat tone that means he isn’t actually interested at all. “My turn? Okay, good.” He draws a deep breath and looks smugly at Steve, who’s now recovered somewhat. “Never have I ever had secret sexual goings-on with the hot new guy on the team.”

There’s a second of frozen silence before Natasha laughs musically, and Thor looks confusedly around at each of them.

“What,” Sam says. “I— what?”

Tony wags his finger at Steve. “You really think that nobody has noticed your hallway hanky-panky?”

“Or the fact that Steve’s bed is never messy,” Natasha adds.

“Well, he’s a military guy,” Rhodey protests, grinning.

“You been crawling around in the air vents again?” Steve asks Natasha, but he smirks at Sam and gives him that one-shoulder shrug again before he tilts his cup back, way back, until there’s nothing left.

“Yeah,” Nat cheers, clapping. Tony joins in, and Thor laughs, but Rhodey holds up a hand.

“Wait,” he says over the din. He turns in his seat and gives Tony a sharp look. “Tony, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Uh...” says Tony.

“I’m pretty new to the team, too, you know,” Rhodey points out, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“What are you... Oh!” Tony cries. “Right. Uh, yeah.”

He polishes off his drink, too, and Rhodey nods, satisfied, before stretching an arm over the back of Tony’s chair.

Sam starts to laugh, and he finds he can’t stop. There’s a shuffle beside him, and then Steve is right there, barely a hair’s breadth between them. He turns Sam’s head and kisses him, only stopping when Natasha makes smoochy noises.

“I guess the cat’s out of the bag now,” Sam says with a grin.

“It was a pretty thin bag,” Steve murmurs, and Sam sighs into his touch, grateful and happy and relieved.

“I’ll fetch you more liquor, Steven,” says Thor, getting to his feet. Natasha and Tony follow him into the kitchen, still chuckling about secrets-that-weren’t-actually-all-that-secret. Rhodey watches them go with a smile, then turns back to Sam and Steve, his expression suddenly thoughtful.

“Something wrong?” Sam asks him.

“No,” Rhodey says slowly. “No, it’s just... how?”

“How what?” Steve asks. “How did we get together?”

But Sam, a fellow Airman, takes a guess. “You wanna how we did it in the air.”

Rhodey shrugs, the tips of his ears darkening. “Don’t write me a porno, but... yeah, kinda.”

Steve looks to Sam for permission, and, after a second, Sam nods. Steve lights up and leans forward. “Okay, so there we were, at 1,600 feet, and....”

Sam watches Steve tell the story, his face bright and animated, and shakes his head. What can you do?


	6. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve, kid fic, Cap Sam; G

“Daddy?” Sierra asked when Steve entered the playroom.

“Mm hmm?” Steve answered distractedly— he’d come in here to find Troy’s blankie, the latest item in a long list of requests before he could go down for a nap. “What is it, sweetie?”

“We need a bird bath,” she said, completely matter-of-fact.

Steve stopped his rooting through the toy chest, and straightened up with a Barbie in each hand. “We need a what?”

“A bird bath,” Sierra repeated. She pointed at the window. “Look. But don’t get too close, you’ll scare them away.”

Steve took two steps towards the window and looked out on the gray, rain-soaked day. He followed Sierra’s finger to a group of birds — sparrows and chickadees, by the looks of them — that were frolicking in the puddles that had formed in the drive.

“They like the water,” Sierra explained. “So can we get them a bird bath?”

“Bir-baf,” said Troy’s voice from behind them, and Steve exhaled a small, frustrated sigh before he turned around. The three-year-old had followed him down the hall; clearly, he had no interest in napping. Steve tossed the Barbies back into the toy chest and picked Troy up when he grabbed at Sierra’s markers — currently strewn all over the floor.

“Sure,” he said, answering Sierra’s question, carrying Troy to the window. “We can get a bird bath. See the birds, kiddo?” he asked the toddler.

Troy did see them— he squealed in delight, and one of his flailing hands hit the glass with a loud thump that startled the birds into flight.

“Hey!” Sierra cried. “You scared my birds!”

“It was an accident, Sierra,” Steve reminded her. “Say you’re sorry, Troy.”

“Sorry,” Troy said meekly.

Sierra scowled in that way that only seven-year-old girls could, but she accepted her little brother’s apology. Steve thanked her for it, then glanced back out the window and did a double take.

“Is that... blankie?” he asked. “On the porch?”

“Blankie,” said Troy.

“Oh, yeah, I think Dad brought it outside last night after supper,” said Sierra. She peered out the window, scrunching up her nose. “It looks dirty.”

“Blankie,” Troy said again.

Steve sighed. “I know, buddy.”

“Can we play outside?” Sierra asked suddenly. “I think it stopped raining.”

“Okay,” Steve said. “Let’s go get our rubber boots on.”

 _Anything to tire the little guy out,_ he added silently, as said little guy raced after his sister to the front door. Sierra threw open the closet and tossed everyone’s shoes unceremoniously aside until she found her bright red boots. Steve frowned, but let it go. They could tidy up when they got back.

“I can’t wait to tell the birds about the bath we’re getting them,” she said, as Steve was helping her zip up her white rain coat. “When can we get it, Daddy?”

“Uh, next weekend,” Steve replied, replacing the boot that Troy had already kicked off.

“Will Dad be back by then?”

“Yep,” said Steve, suppressing the anxiety that always came when Sam got called away in the middle of the night. He put on his own outerwear and grabbed his house keys. “Everybody ready?”

“Ready,” Sierra affirmed with sharp nod. “Ready for orders, Captain.”

Steve chuckled and shook his head, shooing her outside. “That’s your other dad,” he told her, but she wasn’t listening.

The three of them took a tour of the squishy yard. Troy jumped in every puddle he could find, then settled in the garden, making mud pie, as Steve’s mother would say. Sierra, meanwhile, was hanging out near the bushes where sparrows were chittering, and telling them all about the bath they’d have next weekend.

“So you won’t have to use icky rain water anymore,” Steve heard her say. “Won’t that be nice?”

Steve pulled his work phone — highly secure, supposedly unhackable — out of his pocket and took a picture of Sierra crouching near the bushes, whispering to a nearby sparrow, trying to coax him closer with promises of grass and bird seed.

He sent it to Sam, even though he knew Sam was too busy to see it right now, and thought for a second before adding, _I think she takes after you. (PS we miss you, be safe.)_

***

Hours later, when the kids were in bed and Steve was dozing on the couch, Sam sent back a bird emoji, along with the best three words Steve could expect: _Be home soon._


	7. Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fraser/Ray K, post-series; G

Ray held his breath, Fraser’s rotary phone cradled tight to his ear, and waited. His mother’s first response, when it came at last, was not the one he was expecting.

“But it’s Columbus Day.”

Ray huffed out a surprised chuckle. “Not in Canada,” he explained. “In Canada, it’s Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving?” Ray could hear the confusion in her voice. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” Ray replied, biting back a sigh. “It just is.”

“Well, that doesn’t make any sense at all,” she muttered, and it was such a familiar thing for her to say, Ray had to laugh. “Do they have turkey and everything?” she went on. “Like potatoes, yams, that kind of thing?”

“Yes, Mom,” Ray answered patiently. “They have all those things in Canada.”

“Good. Good,” said his mother, obviously relieved. “But why is it on a Monday?”

“I don’t know,” Ray said again, a little sharper than he meant to. “Look, Fraser can explain it all to you when you get here, okay?”

His mother went so quiet at the mention of Fraser’s name, that Ray worried he’d lost her. He pulled the receiver away and looked at it, as if he could see the connection. Then he realized how stupid that was and put it back to his ear.

“Mom? You there?”

“I’m here, dear,” said his mother.

“So...” Ray began awkwardly. “Your father won’t be very happy,” she said at the same time.

Ray’s stomach plummeted. He told himself, again, that this was to be expected. He had only spoken to his father twice since he uprooted his life in Chicago, once to tell him he was going on an adventure in the Territories, and once two months ago to say he wasn’t coming back. He’d told his mother about Fraser in a letter, trusting that his father would take the news better from her than from him.

“So you’d better make sure it’s a Butterball,” his mother was saying now, and Ray realized that he’d missed something. Possibly a few somethings.

“What?” he asked, but she was still talking.

“And I can do the yams when I get there if you want— I mean, do they even have marshmallows in Canada?”

“Yes, they have marshmallows in Canada, Mom,” Ray said quickly. “But— so, you mean you’ll be there? Both of you?”

“With bells on,” his mother replied. “Like I said, it’ll be a long trip, so your father might be grumpy by the time we get there, but—”

“Bring the RV up, he’ll love it,” Ray said. He realized he was grinning suddenly, like all his nerves had been turned into excitement. “Regina’s really nice, Mom, you’ll see. We’ve got a nice piece of land, and Fraser’s got the whole week off from Depot—”

“Depot?”

“The academy. He’s an instructor,” Ray told her in a rush. “It’ll be really nice to have you here.”

“I think so, too,” his mother reassured him. “But you and... Benton will have to return the favor in November, okay? Your aunt Linda’s been dying to meet him.”

“Really?” Ray switched the receiver to his other ear. “I didn’t even think she’d remember me.”

“Oh yes,” his mother said. “I showed her your letter, and she told me about her, uh, _roommate._ ”

Ray laughed, embarrassed but vindicated. “I knew it.”

“We all knew it, dear,” his mother agreed. “So, needless to say, she’ll be very disappointed if you and Ben don’t find yourselves in Wisconsin come Thanksgiving. Uh— November Thanksgiving, I mean,” she concluded.

“Real Thanksgiving?” Ray teased with another grin.

His mother chuckled. “No offence, dear.”

“I’m practically Canadian now, Mom, so if you offend me, I just have to be polite and not say anything about it.”

His mother laughed at that— long and hard. “You? Polite? I never thought I’d see the day, Stanley.”

“You and me both,” said Ray.

There was a pause. Ray heard his mother draw in a long breath and let it out slowly. “But— you’re happy, aren’t you?”

Ray looked around their little house, at the chili pepper lights that Fraser had let him hang up in the dining room, and the antlers that Ray had let Fraser mount in the living room. A cool fall breeze trickled in through the open window, and if Ray wasn’t mistaken, he could hear the distant crunch of gravel that meant that Fraser’s truck had just turned down the long drive. He smiled in joy and anticipation.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I’m happy.”

“I’m so glad, Stanley,” his mother said. “I love you, we’ll see you at Thanksgiving.”

“Love you, too, Mom,” he replied. “See you at Thanksgiving.”

As he pulled the phone away to hang it up, he heard her add, “It’s still weird that it’s in October,” and he couldn’t help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (real) Thanksgiving to my Canadian readers!


	8. Impasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve; G

Steve surveyed the terrain between them. It wasn’t much — two, maybe two and a half square feet — but it symbolized so much more. It was the entire world, an unbreachable divide.

“So,” Sam said. His face was grim. “Looks like we’re at an impasse.”

“Looks like,” Steve agreed, just as serious.

“I really hoped it wouldn’t end like this,” Sam remarked, gesturing to the space between them, littered with signs of their hours-long fight.

“I really hoped it wouldn’t end at all,” said Steve.

Sam grimaced, and Steve could see how much this was hurting him. “That’s not fair, Steve.”

Steve managed a small, self-deprecating smile. “It’s true, though.”

Sam shook his head. “All good things must come to an end, sooner or later.”

“Okay, then, how about I hoped it would be later?”

Sam smiled, soft and slightly sad. “We can agree on that, at least.”

“It was good, though?” Steve asked. If he was going to come out of this alive, he had to know.

“It was good,” Sam reassured him gently.

“So we can agree on that, too,” said Steve with a sigh.

Sam nodded. “I guess so.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Bucky burst out from the corner where he and Nat had been playing poker since being eliminated two hours ago. “Will one of you just attack already? It’s Risk, somebody’s gotta conquer the board. You may as well just get it over with.”

Sam’s face hardened. “Okay. Let’s get it over with.”

Steve narrowed his eyes and reached for the dice. “Let’s.”


	9. Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Natasha, CACW missing scene; M

It’d been a hell of a week. Between the press conferences and the paparazzi staked out in the trees around the Complex — Tony hadn’t yet figured out how they were avoiding the security bots — Natasha was exhausted. Everyone else was, too, and each of them was dealing with it in their own way.

Steve was — surprise, surprise — brooding, mostly, when he wasn’t comforting Wanda, who’d been so pale since Lagos that she was practically colorless. Vision hovered — sometimes literally — around her, and he made her smile once in a while, but it wasn’t often. Tony was working, sometimes with Rhodes, sometimes not — his solution, as ever, seemed to be to never stop; Natasha hoped, if nothing else, Rhodey was keeping him sane, but whenever she looked into his eyes, she saw the same closed-off expression she saw in Tony’s. Two of a kind they were, and Nat worried about what they were working on. Whatever it was, she knew it’d be revealed soon. Something was coming down the pipe, she could tell.

And then there was Sam. Natasha watched him — spent a lot of time watching him, in fact, because she worried about him even more than she worried about what Tony and Rhodes were up to with their hours-long meetings in New York. Sam’s favorite method of coping seemed to be pacing — on the ground or in the air, it didn’t seem to matter; he only moved in circles.

Steve got a kind of pained expression whenever Sam passed by, but he never offered to go along, and as a result Sam seemed to do everything alone.  Not that he seemed to mind; the second he was free of Steve, he changed. His shoulders loosened, he let himself sag when he sighed. He looked tired, and sometimes Natasha would swear that his cheeks were damp when he came down from the air.

When he wasn’t flying, he was wearing a dent into the floor of the gym, going from the machines to the heavy bag and back. Natasha came in one day — oh so casual —when he was there and offered to spar with him, but his shoulders tensed tight again, and he refused.

“Okay,” she said, and she went to the other corner to begin her own workout. And to watch him from a distance, of course.

He said goodnight to Steve every night, she noticed. He’d knock on Steve’s office door while he was working, or set one foot into the shared living room if Steve was watching TV, and wait for Steve to notice him before he said anything. It was an odd habit, but they’d practically lived out of each other’s pockets for two years while searching for Barnes, so maybe that was where it’d started. And Nat could tell it was a habit; like a smoker sneaking cigarettes, Sam seemed furtive and ashamed afterwards, but he kept going back.

Then one night Steve touched his shoulder, and Natasha understood.

She decided to quit watching and help.

* * *

Sam was surprised — not disappointed, nope, he hadn’t been expecting someone else — when he opened his bedroom door and found Natasha standing in the hall. She’d been making herself scarce since Lagos — he’d only seen her a handful of times at the gym. And he didn’t think he’d ever seen her with this expression on her face.

“Sam,” she said simply, and Sam honestly couldn’t tell if she had come to give him bad news or good. “Can I come in?”

Sam shrugged, but he moved aside. “I was just about to turn in, but okay.”

“I won’t be long,” she promised. She sat down on the edge of his bed and patted the mattress beside her. “Sit down?” she asked. “Close the door?”

Sam did, but he glanced warily up and down the empty hall first. _Bad news,_ he decided. The look in Nat’s eyes was too vulnerable and kind for anything else.

“What’s going on?” he asked, once he was settled.

“I wanted to talk to you about Lagos,” she said, and Sam’s walls went even higher.

“I’m not a therapist,” he said flatly.

“I know,” Nat replied right away. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Okay,” Sam said, still guarded. “Then why—”

“Because you need a friend,” Natasha said, answering his unfinished question. “And so do I.”

Sam scrutinized her still-too-kind expression and sighed. “No games,” he said. “Okay? I’m too tired for this. Just tell me what you want. Why did you come here?”

“Because you’re in love with him,” Nat replied, and Sam’s jaw fell open. “I don’t know what happened while you two were out hunting for Barnes,” she went on after a pause, “but things have obviously changed now, and whatever you’re looking for — whatever he’d have given you before when something like Lagos happened—”

“We can’t do that anymore,” Sam said. The words weren’t his.

When Natasha nodded like she understood, Sam closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He thought he’d been hiding it, the heartbreak he’d been living with since Steve asked him to join the team, but Natasha was nothing if not perceptive.

“Does anyone else—” he started hoarsely.

“No,” Natasha answered. Firm. “And they never will.”

Sam breathed again. “Okay,” he said with a nod. “Okay.”

He half-expected Nat to stand up and walk away — she’d given the precision strike to shatter him, the consequences weren’t her concern — but instead she inched closer and cautiously extended her hand. Sam took it, after a second, and her touch sent the air crashing out of his lungs.

“You’re starving,” she said softly.

Sam knew she wasn’t talking about food. He nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah.”

“So let me do this for you,” she continued. She was rubbing Sam’s arm now — he wasn’t sure when she started doing that — and her lips glistened with moisture, so close to his. He could smell her shampoo, see the places where her mascara had washed away from her bottom lashes over the course of the long, heavy day.

“I don’t know,” Sam said, though. He couldn’t help it. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

He met her eyes, trying to convey what words couldn’t, or wouldn’t — _what if I love you, too? what if I can’t let go? what if_ — but she didn’t blink or look away; her steady gaze became the stabilizing horizon to his spiral.

“Just tonight,” she told him.

“Heard that before,” Sam muttered.

“I mean it,” Natasha emphasized, squeezing his hand. “No strings. Whatsoever.”

Sam stared down at their interlaced fingers and hesitated again. “But the team—”

“Something’s coming, Sam,” she cut him off. “I can tell. I can feel it, and I don’t know if the team’s gonna survive it. But I want to, and I want you to, too.”

He looked into her earnest eyes again. “We’ll stay friends,” he said, though the words came out more like a question.

“Always,” she answered. It was as close to the truth as either of them could ask for, and he accepted that — for now, it was enough.

He tugged her close and kissed her, half-experimental. Slowly, thoroughly, learning her lips, her tongue. She pressed against him, and the warmth of her body seeped into him like liquid heat; the places they were touching glowed red-hot, and as he slipped one hand into her soft, rich hair, he found himself on his back, with Natasha’s powerful thighs pinning him down.

 _Should’ve known you’d like it on top,_ he wanted to say, but what came out instead was, “No strings?”

“No strings,” Natasha said, and she kissed him again.

***

The next day, when she sided with Tony and proposed they sign the Accords, her eyes said it again.


	10. Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Bucky, Cap Sam; M

“Smile, enunciate, and don’t take any questions you don’t think you can answer,” Steve had told him last night. “It’s easy.”

But in front of a huge crowd, about to make his first commemorative address as the brand-new (and for _some_ reason controversial) Captain America, it wasn’t easy. Sam forgot all Steve’s advice and gaped like a fish at the number of cameras now pointed in his direction.

He cleared his throat and tapped his cue cards against the podium, straightening them unnecessarily. Bucky had raced back up to their hotel room half an hour ago because Sam had forgotten them, and he’d shoved them into Sam’s hands and disappeared so quick Sam didn’t even get a kiss for luck.

He looked down at the neatly printed words and felt relatively calmer. He knew this, he could do this.

“Today, we honor the brave men and women who continue to give so much for their country,” he began, and his voice only shook a little.

He got through the first card and then the second, but he stumbled when he got to the third. There was the next batch of sentences he had to read, but underneath was a surprisingly accurate doodle of a dick, complete with the stars and stripes.

“Dammit, Barnes,” he said under his breath.

“Are you all right, Captain?” one of the men behind him.

“Fine,” Sam said quickly, twisting his hands so no one would see what he was looking at. He took a sip of water and continued. “Every Veterans Day, we gather to say that never again will we allow so many to suffer and die. But too often we ignore the suffering of those we claim to honor. Those for whom the war has never ended. Well, as a veteran...”

No dicks graced the fourth card, or the fifth, but on the sixth and final card, scrunched under the final lines of his speech, were three pairs of stick figures, all engaged in one act of coitus or another. One of them was wearing a cowboy hat — again, adorned with the stars and stripes — and there was a speech bubble: _YOU DID IT, SAMMY!_

Something on the rooftop opposite the memorial glinted. He sent a quick glare in its direction, knowing full well that Barnes would see it through his scope, then finished his speech to raucous applause.

He’d kill Barnes for it later, but at least Sam’s smile, pasted across the front page of every newspaper in the country the next morning, was genuine.


	11. Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve/Sharon, future fic, angst; T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Optional musical accompaniment: [Landslide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4_wXPZ1Bnk).

The first time he became aware of it was at Tony’s party— yes, that party. But before everything went to hell, Thor poured him some clear, sweetly-scented liquid and told him, “This is not for mortal men.” That was when he thought about it — probably for the first time since Bucky asked him all those questions about the serum back in 1942.

But it didn’t sink in with Thor’s words. Not really. What made it stick happened about an hour later, when Rhodes turned his head, and there, amongst the dark hair, were a few curls of gray. That was it. Just a few seconds where suddenly it hit home for Steve: _I’m not going to age like them._

After that, the moments seemed to accumulate. The lines around Tony’s eyes were deeper, etchings in stone that looked darker in certain lights, but never went away. Clint’s kids grew up. The oldest went off to college, escorted discreetly by armed security that Fury had somehow managed to arrange. Sharon had a baby— had his baby, in fact, and he didn’t stay a baby for long. Everybody told Steve this was normal — _they grow up so fast_ — but not everybody had Steve’s perception.

On his 120th birthday, Sam threw him a party, but he only had one beer, claiming he was getting too old to go all night like they used to. Steve reminded him that they’d never really done that in the first place, so maybe they could tonight, and Sam laughed.

“I was too old for that when I met you,” he said, even though it didn’t seem that way to Steve.

And twelve years later— well.

He knew he’d live to see his friends and comrades die; that was war. But not of old age. He didn’t want to outlive his wife, his son, or any more of his friends.

If anyone had asked him, in 1942, if he’d give it all up and reverse the serum, Steve knew what he would have said. But he was young and stupid then, and overly fond of risks. Now he knew better, but maybe he still liked risks, because Sharon tried to talk him out of it and failed.

The procedure was painful, and afterwards, his body hurt in ways he’d forgotten were possible. But his hands, when he saw them, were wrinkled and spotted with age. Sharon’s creased face broke into a smile when he looked at her, and relief washed over him like autumn rain.

 _To everything there is a season,_ his mother taught him in another life. Nothing is supposed to last forever, and Steve’s seasons were finally changing.


	12. Instrument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve/Bucky, kid fic, Catholic themes, Sam can talk to birds, (or can he?); G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Optional musical accompaniment: [The Prayer of St. Francis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IFkjdFgqOY4).

It was a Sunday like any other. The kids didn’t sleep in (because why would they do that?), but Steve — ever the early riser — managed to keep them occupied long enough that Sam and Bucky could have a little quiet time before church.

It was Steve’s turn to lead the reading, so for the first time ever, they weren’t late for the service. Bucky stayed home, as he usually did, but he brought them bagels and coffee after, and the three of them led the kids on a lazy stroll through the park across the street.

“Talk to the birds, Daddy,” Tina requested when they paused by a bench.

Bucky and Steve exchanged a quick wry glance as Sam reached surreptitiously into his pocket.

“What do you want me to tell them?” he asked.

“Hi,” said Quintyn in his small voice. It was one of the few words he knew, along with Dada, baba, and “uck”, which Bucky insisted was his name and not, as Sam claimed, a noise of disgust that the baby was making at his face.

“Tell them to be careful,” Liza put in. Her face was drawn with worry, and Steve knew it was because of the hawk they’d seen above the backyard last week. He patted her shoulder reassuringly, and Sam nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell them hi and be careful— anything else?”

“Ask them if it’s okay for me to take their picture,” said Tina. “Bucky, can I borrow your phone?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he pulled it out of his back pocket. “Why do you always ask me?”

“Yours has the highest resolution,” Tina answered like it was obvious, and, to a ten-year-old who spent all her free time reading about technology, Steve supposed it was.

Still— “What’s the magic word?” he prompted.

“Please,” Tina said immediately. “And thank you.”

“Okay,” said Bucky, unlocking the phone and handing it over. “If we can find a way to block everything else, we ought to get her one of her own,” he added to Steve in an undertone.

“Later,” Steve said out of the corner of his mouth as Tina climbed up on the bench to get a good angle. He didn’t want her overhearing anything and getting ideas.

Meanwhile, Sam was crouched under a tree, “summoning the birds” — which is to say, sprinkling the ground with the seeds from his pocket. He straightened up, took a few steps back, and winked in Steve and Bucky’s direction. Within a few minutes, some sparrows had fluttered down, chirping and munching happily.

“Okay,” Sam said softly. “Hi, birds. Nice to see you today. Good weather, yeah?”

He waited, cocking his head like he was listening. Tina started snapping photos; Liza’s eyes were flicking a little uneasily between the sparrows and the big empty sky overhead. In the stroller, Quintyn started to fuss. Bucky pushed it forward and back absently, his eyes locked on Sam.

“Saint Sam of Assisi,” he said under his breath, with a small, fond smile. “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace....”

Steve turned in surprise. Bucky caught him looking and shrugged. “Funny what my brain thinks is important enough to remember.”

“Huh,” Steve agreed, but before he could say more, Quintyn started crying in earnest, loud enough to startle some of the closer birds. Bucky picked him up out of the stroller, while Liza wandered over to Sam and crouched near him. Steve saw him open his hand, tip a little of the seed into her palm, and Liza’s eyes widened. Tina, meanwhile called out to Steve, asking him to show her how to do the filter things again.

 _Peace,_ Steve thought, as he sat beside her on the bench and opened the camera's advanced settings. _Amen._


	13. Foolish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve & Natasha/Sharon, karaoke, alcohol, no powers; T

When it comes to karaoke, Sam is Not A Fan. Younger Sam — College Sam — he didn’t mind it, but Present Day Sam? No, thank you.

And Steve knows this. In fact, Steve isn’t really a fan, either, and he sure as hell knows better than to call Sam at eight-thirty on a Saturday night and Sam if they can change their date location to a bar that Sam knows full-well starts karaoke at nine.

“Absolutely not,” Sam tells him. “You were supposed to take me swing dancing, and I was really looking forward to you being bad at rhythm in a whole new genre.”

“Hey, that’s not fair, I took lessons,” Steve protests. “But that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” Sam asks.

“The point—” There’s a rustle, and the background chatter of wherever he is quiets down. “The point is that I need your help. Something’s kind of come up, with Sharon, and... I don’t really want to leave her here alone.”

Sam gets serious at once. Sharon is Steve’s best friend, and she’s also one of the most practical, level-headed people Sam’s ever met. She and Steve were having dinner tonight, but if Steve’s worried enough that he hasn’t left her side yet, then something (bad) must have happened.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Sam promises.

“Thank you,” Steve says earnestly. “I owe you one — blank check, okay?”

Sam chuckles. “That could get interesting,” he muses, dropping his voice to a register that he knows gets Steve hot and bothered. “Are you sure?”

Steve clears his throat; Sam smirks, knowing he’s blushing. They say their goodbyes, and Sam hops online to find the quickest route to karaoke hell.

***

He arrives about half a verse into a song that’s vaguely familiar and very, very 90s. The singer is good — her voice is soft and smoky, without a single off-key note. It’s much better than what Sam was expecting, but he reminds himself as he takes his seat beside Steve that it’s still early.

“Hey, thanks for coming,” Steve says, greeting him with a quick kiss.

“No problem,” Sam replies. “Hi, Sharon, how’s it going?”

“Good,” she says in a flat, dreamy voice. Her eyes don’t move; all her focus is on the singer on the other side of the room.

Sam looks, and — yeah, he gets it. She’s gorgeous, with red wavy hair and a tight black shirt cut just low enough to show off her assets.

“She’s pretty good,” Sam says, as the redhead reaches the chorus. “Oh,” he adds, as he recognizes the song at last. “Foolish Games. Of course. God, this takes me back. Must have been what, ’95?”

“Dunno,” says Steve. “Who sings—”

“Shh,” says Sharon suddenly, loud enough that someone at a nearby table looks over, startled.

Sam realizes his mouth is hanging open and closes it. He looks to Steve for an explanation, but Steve shakes his head and leans in close.

“This is why we’re here,” he whispers.

Sam nods like he understands, but he really, really doesn’t.

The song ends — and wow, the redhead’s range is quite impressive on the final chorus. Sharon claps and cheers. The redhead glances over on her way back to her table and sends Sharon a smile that Sam recognizes, and— oh. Now he gets it.

“You see?” Sharon says to Steve once the applause dies down and the next name is called. Her expression is miserable. “I’m in love with her.”

Steve glances at Sam. Sam shrugs. “Do you know her?” he asks. “Like, have you ever bought her a drink or introduced yourself?”

“No,” Sharon interrupts with a sigh. “No, I can’t do that, it’d be creepy.”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it again. Looks once more to Sam. “Drink?”

“Please,” Sam replies promptly. He gets to his feet and follows Steve to the bar.

“Do you see what I mean?” Steve asks while they’re waiting for the bartender to notice them. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

“It’s weird, that’s for sure,” Sam agrees. “But did you see that smile? That wasn’t just flirty, that was... something else.”

“So, you think she has a shot?” Steve asks, hopeful.

“Shots, that’s a good idea,” Sam remarks, and, since the bartender is finally in front of them, he orders one each for him, Steve, and Sharon.

“What?” Steve says with a laugh as the drinks appear. “Why?”

“Because,” Sam begins, pulling a bill from his wallet to cover the drinks, “the only way to do this is to fight fire with fire.”

“You mean—?”

“I mean.” Sam picks up the shot glasses and gives Steve the most serious expression he can drum up. “Grab that songbook. We’re doing karaoke.”

***

Waiting for their names to get called is painful, and not just because of the anticipation. Sam’s pretty sure his ears are bleeding after two barely-legal white girls attempt Livin’ La Vida Loca, and he has to hide in the bathroom when a 50-year-old dude in a trucker hat does American Pie, not letting the fact that he only knows ten percent of the lyrics hold him back.

But finally, Steve goes up with sweet little rendition of Home by Michael Bublé — he’s a big tree, that one, with hell of a lot of sap — and Sam tries his hand at Billie Jean. It’s a bold choice, but he thinks he manages okay. And lastly—

“Sharon,” the DJ calls. Sharon takes a deep breath and stands.

“You can do it,” Steve tells her, and Sam holds his hand up for a high five as she passes.

“Here we go,” he says, and Steve nods. Then the guitar starts, and Sam grimaces. “Wow. Talk about Depressed Fest ’97. She couldn’t have picked something cheerier?”

“She’s trying to get Natasha’s attention,” Steve explains. He takes a sip of his beer and nods towards a far table. “I think it’s working, look.”

Sam looks— the gorgeous redhead is staring at Sharon, and she’s smiling, even though Sharon’s song — more Jewel, of course — is breaking Sam’s heart.

“That’s encouraging,” he says to Steve. Steve nods, stretches his arm around the back of Sam’s chair. Sam shifts closer, leaning into Steve’s touch.

“Good date?” Steve asks, his voice a low murmur in Sam’s ear.

“Not really,” Sam replies, just because he knows it’ll rile Steve up.

Sure enough, Steve huffs behind him and pulls away, but it’s only to clap for Sharon as she finishes up her song. Sam can’t help but notice that the redhead’s eyes keep following her while she makes her way back to their table.

“I did it,” she gushes. She’s beaming — the first real grin that Sam’s seen on her all night.

“You did it,” he agrees, and he passes her the songbook again. “Hurry, before Steve does another Bublé.”

“Hey,” Steve protests, but he laughs and gets up to grab them another round to celebrate. Sharon’s flicking through the book, and Sam’s about to suggest something fun, like Cyndi Lauper, when someone interrupts them.

“Hi,” says a voice. Sam turns, and it’s the redhead, who still only has eyes for Sharon.

“Hi,” Sharon echoes numbly.

“Hi,” the redhead says again. “I just wanted to say, I love that song you did.”

“Oh,” says Sharon. “Oh, me too. With yours. I mean— I loved your song, too. You’ve got a great voice.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but the redhead doesn’t seem to notice how bad Sharon is at this. “You too,” she says. She licks her lips, and shifts her weight from one heeled boot to the other. “I was wondering — would you maybe want to do a duet? With me?”

“Now there’s a euphemism if I ever heard one,” Sam says under his breath. He gets to his feet and grabs his and Steve’s jackets. “We’re gonna head out,” he tells Sharon. “So feel free to cozy up and check out the songbook together.”

It’s hard to tell in the bar light, but Sam thinks Sharon’s cheeks are pink. The redhead — Natasha — is merely giving Sam an appraising look; Sam guesses that they’ll be friends down the road, if things work out.

“We’re leaving?” Sam hears Steve say from behind him. “Why are we— oh,” he interrupts himself, obviously having just noticed what he walked in on. “Okay, then, we’re leaving.”

Sharon hugs them goodbye, and as Sam walks away, he hears her suggest Landslide as a song they could do together.

“Wow,”  Sam says, shaking his head. “I guess they both just really like depressing music.”

“Hey, it’s important to share common interests,” Steve counters. He angles a smirk in Sam’s direction. “Like us.”

“Yeah?” Sam slips an arm around Steve’s waist — maybe a little lower than Steve’s waist. “And what common interest is that?”

“Well,” Steve says slowly. He stops and pulls Sam into a dark corner of the street to kiss him, warm and beery. “I owe you big time for tonight, and I am very interested in finding out what you’d like to do about that.”

“Hm,” says Sam, leaning into Steve’s body and wriggling just enough to make both of them a little hungrier for it. “Then I guess we’d better get back to your place and discuss it.”


	14. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve, AoU missing scene; T

When the news broke, Sam was at home, channel surfing and generally feeling miserable. He’d flicked through three soap operas and at least as many infomercials, and he was about to start the quick news click that had become normal since he came home from the Middle East — he didn’t need to dwell on explosions when there was nothing he could do about them.

So he clicked. And then he had to click back, because there was footage of an explosion, but there was also a familiar blue figure amongst the rubble. He drew a deep breath and unmuted the television.

“—Avengers are on the scene, but information is scarce. News crews have been unable to reach Tony Stark, the team’s de facto leader, who— whoa!”

The camera swung wildly, tracking a red and gold blur overhead. Sam felt his fingers moving, but only when he heard a blast of static in his ear did he realize that he’d grabbed his phone and dialled Steve’s number. He hung up and tried again — same response — then tried Natasha. The line rang once, but a loud hiss and distorted noise almost like human speech made Sam yank the phone away from his ear.

“Damn it,” he exclaimed, and he tossed the phone down to get lost in the couch cushions.

He watched the TV give half-answers and replay footage of Steve and the Avengers ushering civilians out of harm’s way. After a minute he couldn’t stand it and shoved himself up. Consumed with the need to do something, he paced, one end of his house to the other, back and forth. It was all he could do — he had no wings, no guns, no Iron Man suit. He didn’t even have Iron Man’s phone number, for crying out loud.

Which wasn’t helpful to think about right now. Because two nights ago—

_“Sam, come on,” Steve called after him as he headed for the elevator. “You know that’s not what I meant.”_

_“Really don’t,” Sam muttered, not slowing down._

_“Sam,” Steve said again, and his hand caught Sam’s wrist. “Please? Wait.”_

_Sam inhaled sharply through his nose, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t ask Steve to stop touching him. Because, if Sam were honest with himself, he didn’t want him to, and that was the problem. He turned around, slowly, and faced Steve’s huge, contrite eyes._

_“I’m sorry,” Steve said._

_“For what?” Sam had to ask._

_“For...” Steve grimaced. “For not standing up for you. I don’t know why I did that.”_

I do, _Sam thought, but he didn’t say that. He didn’t want to fight anymore. He sighed. “What am I to you?” he asked after a moment._

_Steve’s mouth twisted again, and he let go of Sam’s wrist. “I— I don’t know,” he stammered finally._

_Sam nodded. “I haven’t held back from you,” he said, dropping his voice as someone wandered past them towards the restrooms._

_“I know,” Steve said, “but—”_

_“No buts,” Sam interrupted. “I haven’t held back from you. I made it perfectly clear what I was looking for, and if you can’t do that...”_

_“I know,” Steve said again, miserably. “And you shouldn’t have to—”_

_“You just go right ahead and play the martyr card, Steve,” Sam cut him off, suddenly furious again. He jabbed the button to call the elevator, and thankfully the doors opened right away._

_“Sam,” Steve began, but he fell silent when Sam stepped inside and turned around._

_“Grow the hell up,” Sam added. “And until you do, don’t call me.”_

_The doors closed on Steve’s anguished expression, and Sam went home without looking back._

It haunted him, the way he left it like that. He’d known it was vicious, his parting shot; he hadn’t needed to end it like that.

But he did, and Steve didn’t call him for two days, and now he was on TV, fighting hordes of robots in a city that looked like it was trapped in the apocalypse.

And there wasn’t a damn thing Sam could do about it.

***

His sister called, came over to distract him. The news stopped live footage from Sokovia after Steve told them they had to evacuate — he glanced into the camera and drew a breath like he was going to say more, and Sam had to stop himself from reaching out and touching the screen. But Steve didn’t say more; he just escorted the news crews to the transport, then turned and walked away.

“Captain,” they called after him. “Captain, can you tell us anything more?”

Steve glanced over his shoulder, but he shook his head and carried on.

“Damn,” Sarah murmured. “That is one cold, hard man.”

“He isn’t, really,” Sam said before he could stop himself.

Sarah gave him a Look, and Sam ended up telling her the whole story, complete with all the worries that he and Steve were just fooling around, that he’d gone and gotten himself involved with an unavailable man (again), who was going to go and die on him and leave important things unsaid (again).

“Oh, honey,” Sarah sighed, but she didn’t give him platitudes or assure him of things she had no way of knowing. Instead, she wrapped an arm around his shoulder and just held him close until the TV stopped playing the same four clips in a continuous loop.

***

The reporters had no idea how the situation got resolved — blurry photos showed the floating city sink safely to the ground, but camera crews were kept out for hours yet. When they were finally allowed back, they got nothing out of Tony Stark except a vague, practised statement that told them almost nothing.

But Sam sighed in relief because there, in the background, was Steve. He looked grubby and exhausted, with tears in his armor and a definite limp. But he was helping to shift the wreckage, leading the search for survivors.

Sarah gave Sam a tight hug and stayed with him a little longer, only leaving when it got dark and Sam insisted. He locked the door behind her, turned the TV off, and lay down on the sofa.

***

He didn’t mean to, but he must have fallen asleep, because the buzzing of his phone startled him awake. His fingers fumbled around the coffee table blindly until at last he found it.

“Hello,” he grunted.

“Sam,” said Steve’s voice.

“Steve,” said Sam, alert at once. He extracted himself from the afghan he’d pulled over himself and sat up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “I’m tired, and it’s my turn to rest, but... I needed to hear your voice.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said heavily. “Yeah, I— me, too.”

There was a pause. Sam worried for a second that Steve had fallen asleep, since he did that sometimes — just ran so hard for so long that he dropped off mid-sentence. But then Sam heard him inhale, long and slow.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that’s not enough—”

“I’m sorry, too,” Sam replied, the words bubbling up out of the hole they’d festered in for the better part of three days. “Steve, I didn’t mean to hurt—”

“I know,” Steve sighed, “but you were right, and I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” said Sam. He hesitated, biting his lip, unsure of how to go on.

“I talked to the team,” Steve said. “They know. And— and they’re happy for us.”

Sam’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Steve. There was a shuffle on the other end of the phone, and he made a small noise of pain. 

“What happened?” Sam asked. His voice came out too quiet, but he knew Steve would hear him.

“It’s a long story,” Steve replied. “But I’ll tell you, when an evil robot man raises a city out of the ground, and you think you’re gonna die protecting it? Kinda gives you some perspective.”

Something about that made Sam chuckle, but his eyes teared up at the same time. “Our lives are weird,” he said, then added, “And isn’t that the understatement of the century.”

“Two centuries,” Steve corrected him absently. “But yeah. _Our_ lives are weird.”

Sam frowned, puzzled by the emphasis. “What do you mean?”

“Sam, I want in,” Steve said quickly, fiercely. “You, me, I want it all. You asked me what you were to me, and I was too chickenshit—”

“Hey,” Sam cut in.

“—to tell you,” Steve continued like Sam hadn’t spoken. “You’re everything, Sam. And last night, looking out at that horizon, sure that I was gonna die, all I could think about was you. How you should’ve been there with me. How you would’ve been, if I hadn’t been such a coward.”

“Steve,” said Sam softly.

“I don’t ever want to be in a situation like that without you at my side,” Steve concluded. “And I don’t want you to go through that either.”

“Okay,” Sam said, drawing a breath that was surprisingly shaky. “Okay, you want all that? I do, too. But what does that mean, Steve? Because you had a point the other night about your responsibilities to the team.”

“Fuck that,” Steve said vehemently. “Starting now, you’re on that team. And you’re not going out looking for Bucky alone anymore. You never should’ve been in the first place.”

“Steve,” Sam protested. “I don’t mind—”

“I know,” Steve said, sounding exhausted again, like that burst of emotion had drained the last of his energy. “And I don’t mean to be giving you orders here. You make your own decisions, obviously. But you asked me, and I couldn’t go another minute without giving you my answer.”

Sam’s eyes were watering again, and his throat was tight, but he smiled. “You never have been very patient,” he agreed.

Steve laughed softly. Then, “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Sam said. He cleared his throat. “Any idea when you’re coming home?”

“No,” Steve sighed. “But Rhodey said he could clear you to come over with the support troops, if you wanted. We could use another set of hands.”

Sam nodded. It would be a relief to be useful after all this time sitting. “Yeah, give him my number, we’ll set that up. Maybe I can talk him into getting that best friend of his to make me a new set of wings, too.”

“Good plan,” Steve agreed. It sounded like he was stifling a yawn.

“Get some rest,” Sam told him. “We’ll talk more when I get there.”

“Okay,” Steve said, and if Sam didn’t know he was exhausted before, he knew it now. Steve never went down without a fight. “Goodnight, Sam.”

“Goodnight,” Sam echoed. He pulled the phone away from his ear to hang up, but as he did, he heard Steve say his name one more time. “Yeah?”

“I love you,” Steve said, clear and sure. “I should’ve said that a long time ago.”

Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat. His heart felt warm and fragile in his chest. “Me, too,” he said, when he could. “Me, too. Now go to sleep.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Steve mumbled.

Sam waited a few seconds before hanging up, just in case, but Steve didn’t say anything more. Sam got to his feet and stretched. He folded the afghan and draped it over the back of the sofa, where it belonged. Outside his window, the sky was just starting to lighten.

It was a new day, and Sam was an Avenger.


	15. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, post-CACW; found family; G

Steve was worried about it. Why wouldn’t he be? They were his team, and he was their leader, and they were going to be crammed in some cabin in the Scottish countryside, waiting for everything to die down so they could go home.

He wasn’t worried about Sam — they’d lived out of each other’s pockets for a while already. And he wasn’t worried about Clint. A guy with that many kids knew how to stay calm when sharing space. But he worried about Wanda, who hadn’t looked or acted like herself since Steve busted her out of the Raft. And he worried about Scott, who was honestly a bit of a wild card in Steve’s opinion. The move he’d pulled at the airport was a nifty piece of science, but half of what came out the man’s mouth at any given time went clear over Steve’s head.

Mostly, he worried about all of them under one roof — they were a lot of strong personalities in one (small) space, himself included. He tended to like his privacy if he could get it, and God knew he wasn’t a terribly patient man at times. If his temper got the best of him one morning because Scott was taking forever in the bathroom on his hair, then what? Living here with them meant risking these people seeing a side of him that almost no one had ever seen.

Steve hadn’t shared space like this since Bucky, but Bucky was as easy to be around as fresh air. (And, for a few minutes on the jet, he had been again.) This was different. This was four people, and none of them were Bucky. (God, he hoped Bucky was okay.)

This was family, this was intimacy. This was something that Steve worried none of them were very good at. They were all a bunch of misfits, after all, even more so now that they were on the lam. But they were all they had, and Steve was their leader, so they’d make it work.

They’d have to.


	16. Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, anti-HYDRA!Cap; T

“...but, in defiance of the odds, that frail and sickly boy survived childhood, and—”

“He makes it sound like you survived through sheer spite,” Sam muttered in Steve’s earpiece.

“Has Sam even met you?” Bucky asked, apparently serious.

“Enough,” Steve said under his breath. He swore, if their bickering blew this mission...

But the speaker droned on, and no one seemed to notice that the bearded man standing in the back was a plant, waiting to take the group down. The meeting was getting to the good part, and by good, Steve meant the Nazi-punching part. He just had to sit through the drivel a little longer, until Natasha could—

“Nice Photoshop there,” Bucky muttered when the projector displayed a photo of the Commandos sans Gabe and Jim.

Steve felt his hands curl into fists. He was seething, but he did his best to keep his face impassive, even when the speaker accused him of being secretly on their side throughout the war. He couldn’t react— not yet. Better for these hatemongers not to know the truth until the very last moment.

As if on cue, Natasha came over the commlink. “We’ve got them,” she said.

“Here we go,” said Sam as Steve strode towards the center aisle.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a loud, clear voice. The speaker fell silent at once, but gasps raced through the crowd as they realized who he was. “I’m afraid that you’ve made several errors in your presentation tonight. And, as much as I’d love to spend the next few hours correcting you, I’m afraid it’ll have to wait, since you’re all under arrest.”

The crowd erupted into shouts, and most of the attendees got to their feet, jostling each other in a mad rush to the exit. Unfortunately for them, Fury’s agents were already coming through the doors, accompanied by Sam, Bucky, and Natasha.

By the time the dust had settled, they had over a hundred people in custody. Tomorrow, they’d begin the process of trying them, working to get as many as they could to meet with counsellors and groups that specialize in rehabilitating former hate group members.

But tonight, Steve found himself left with a stack of pamphlets, all emblazoned with his face, a swastika superimposed over it. The sight made him nauseous. He wondered if he could burn them, or if that would count as destroying evidence. He’d have to ask Fury, and, God, he hoped Fury would let him.

Maybe if he bought some marshmallows and promised him s’mores....


	17. Jubilant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha/Sharon, wedding; G

Natasha didn’t really get it. Like, she got it, she just didn’t _get it,_ get it. She didn’t see why all their friends were so jubilant at hearing the news, why they wanted her to tell the story of the proposal over and over again.

And she didn’t get the wedding fever, either. Not that she wasn’t excited; she just wasn’t gaga over centerpieces or whatever everyone else seemed to be losing their minds over. It helped that Sharon didn’t care, either; she agreed to all-but elope in three weeks, after all. But their friends insisted on a party, and it quickly swelled beyond the original, “you, me, and two witnesses” that they’d planned on.

So with the help — the peaceful takeover — of Pepper’s Perfect Party Planners, Natasha and Sharon had an honest-to-God wedding planned in three weeks. Guests, cake, limo, flowers, and everything.

And when Natasha saw Sharon waiting in the vestibule in her ivory gown; when they clasped hands and took those first important steps down the aisle together—

Natasha got it. She really, really got it.

And then she got married.


	18. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve, delayed sexual gratification; M

There are a lot of things that can be said of Steve Rogers; that he’s patient isn’t one of them. Which is why Sam loves to keep him waiting.

“Sam, Sam, _Sam,_ ” he begs, and Sam smirks, leans back on the sofa.

“Yes, baby?” he says, as if he doesn’t know. Steve asked him to act like he doesn’t know.

“You’re so far away,” Steve complains, and Sam’s eyes flick away from his book. Not that he’s been able to read, but the blurry words give him something to focus on. Something that’s not handcuffed naked in front of him.

Steve shifts under Sam’s gaze, his knees kneading the cushion that Sam put under him — God, was that only twenty minutes ago? And he’s already like this? Impatient doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“I’m not done this chapter yet,” Sam tells him, keeping his voice as casual as he can. He raises his book — it’s too bad, he really is enjoying it when it’s not a prop — and ignores Steve’s fidgeting.

He knows that Steve can break those cuffs, but he’s good at pretending too, and he wanted this. Except—

Under the pretense of turning the page, Sam slips a hand into his pocket and presses the button on the device that’s in there. He can’t hear the buzz start up, as muffled as it is by Steve’s body, but he can hear Steve’s gasp, and the renewed sounds of his shuffling on the cushion.

Again, Sam ignores it, though it’s getting — ha ha — harder to do so. He’s watching Steve around the book, hyperaware of each movement, the way that his face is getting more flushed, how his chest is starting to shimmer with sweat.

Soon, Steve will say his name again, and he won’t be able to resist. For now, though, he’d rather wait.


	19. Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, vampire!Steve; T

Sunrise comes first for the skyscrapers. Down here at street level, Steve has a few more minutes. But it smells like day — like birdsong and busying humans. It makes him vaguely nauseous. He must get indoors.

It was foolish — reckless — to be out this late. It’s in his nature to seek shelter early, before the birds, but the other vampire, the Daywalker — Steve had never seen one, and rarely had he seen anyone so beautiful.

Daywalkers are dangerous. Too many ally with humans and hunters to kill Steve’s kind. That was why he followed him on this night that is quickly becoming day. If the Daywalker is stalking him, then Steve must be very cautious. He needs to know that his home is secure before he retires. He needs—

darkness.

He has been out too long. His skin burns — blisters that will heal by nightfall, assuming they don’t worsen first.

Like an animal he crawls into a sewer, the cold dirty water a blessing. He bends, splashes the muck on his face, his shoulders — everywhere that the sun has touched.

Tonight he’ll return to the place he lost the Daywalker’s scent. He’ll track him all night again if he has to; this is far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depending on your feelings for Steve, the Daywalker can be Sam or Blade — you choose! :P


	20. Sheltered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam & Wanda, CACW missing scene; M
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING for sexual assault (non-consensual touching), told in flashback.

As soon as the collar unclicked, and she regained a sense of clarity for the first time in days, Wanda went straight to Sam.

“Whoa,” he said as she hugged him, tight. She felt him hesitate, then loosen up, raising his arms around her, too, and patting her back.

“When did they get so close?” she heard Sharon ask Steve, but no one answered her. Everyone who’d been on the Raft knew.

“It’s okay,” Sam told her— again. He eased her back and used one warm, calloused hand to raise her chin, inspecting for damage she knew he’d see, even though there were no marks.

She wished she could say the same for him. The bruise — purple and ugly — still marred his face. The guard had been right-handed.

“Where can I find a first-aid kit?” she asked the silent cargo hold.

“I don’t need—” Sam started to protest, but Steve was already moving, digging through shelves until he found the red and white box and handed it to her.

Wanda thanked him and led Sam to one of the benches along the wall. He sat when she nudged him, and held still while she daubed ointment around his eye.

“What happened?” Steve finally asked.

Sam looked at Wanda — she had a feeling they were all looking her — and the message was clear: your body, your story.

_“Pretty little freak,” the guard said, pausing in the process of putting on her straightjacket to stroke her cheek. She turned away, repulsed, but his hand — his right, his dominant — gripped her tight, so tight, around her hips. Then his fingers started to wriggle and squirm, inching backwards, under her ass then up, between—_

_—and then he was yanked away. “Don’t you touch her,” Sam ordered, in a dangerous tone that she’d never heard before. And the guard laughed before he made Sam pay for it._

Her skin crawled, she was nauseous at the memory, and Sam was still bruised from the guards’ vengeance. They were all still looking at her, waiting for an explanation, but she she couldn’t tell them. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“He sheltered me,” she said instead, and went back to tending Sam’s injuries.


	21. Fingertips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, set during CATWS, character reflection (Sam); T

In situations of high stress and danger, dexterity in your extremities is the first to go. As adrenaline floods your system, the body draws what it needs inwards, to protect the most vulnerable parts of you — things like your heart and lungs. This is why soldiers and police officers need to train so much — they condition their bodies to work despite the stress, to move their hands and feet, even when their body is telling them that those parts aren’t important. But they are important. Because triggers aren’t as effective when you can’t feel your fingertips.

Sam knows this. He’s known this for years. But he didn’t think about it when he told Steve there was no better reason to get back in. And it didn’t cross his mind when all hell broke loose on the freeway. He ducked, he dived, he rolled. He cut a rifle off some goon and kicked him down. He supplied suppressive fire while his friend (apparently), Captain America, went toe-to-toe with a gatling gun.

It’s only after the dust has settled, and Sam’s cleaning guns in a bunker with four of the most dangerous people he’s ever met — that’s when it hits him: not once have his hands gone numb today. His trigger finger didn’t stiffen up, he didn’t lack any dexterity in his hands or feet as he stole that rifle, put his wings back on, and kicked an assassin (and apparently another friend of Captain America) in the back. He did it all, and not one part of him — not his brain or body — hesitated. Two years away from the front lines, but none of him had been fooled into thinking he was a civilian.

He isn’t sure why, but that scares him a little.


	22. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve/Peggy, pre-romance, CATFA missing scene; warning for mild misogyny; T

“You must be lost,” said a nasally voice from behind him.

Steve turned and nearly bumped into the broad chest of the man behind him. He had curly hair and a boyish face, currently twisted up in a sneer that Steve knew all too well. Sighing internally, Steve drew himself up to his full height — even though he barely came up to the guy’s shoulder — and looked him in the eye.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, in a tone that was usually aggressive enough to make people back down — or at least think twice before taking a swing.

This guy, however, did neither. Instead he snickered and looked to the handful of men that had gathered behind him. Bullies always liked an audience, Steve thought, and there were more than enough bored cadets at Camp Lehigh to make hazing a smaller guy worth the effort.

“Well, see, the WAAC’s training in Des Moines,” the bully explained, like a teacher pointing out that two and two made four. “So clearly, you’re lost. Isn’t she, boys?”

The cadets laughed, and Steve felt his temperature rise. He made to step forward, ready to show this asshole a thing or two, but Col. Philips chose that moment to call everyone to order. Steve fell into line only a few guys away from the bully, using his angry energy to hold his shoulders as stiff as he could.

Philips went down the row — Steve didn’t miss the way the colonel hesitated in front of him —and then Agent Carter entered his vision, and Steve stopped being able to hear sounds or have any coherent thoughts at all.

“Gilmore Hodge, Your Majesty,” the bully said suddenly, jerking Steve back to reality.

 _Hodge,_ Steve told himself. _I’ll remember that._

But it turned out he didn’t have to, because, one smart-mouthed comment later, Agent Carter laid him out with a punch that impressed the hell out of Steve — and turned him on like crazy, too.

As she stepped back, and Col. Philips took over again, it was an effort to keep a straight face and not to look at Agent Carter. He knew the satisfaction of that sight would stay with him for a long time, and he hoped to God that Hodge would give her a reason to do it again.


	23. Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Bucky, battle fluff, bickering, Sam Cap; T

Bullets whistled overhead as Sam crawled toward the half-wall where Bucky was hunkered. He took a few shots to cover Sam for the last few feet, then pulled him up into a seated position beside him.

“Thanks,” said Sam. He pressed his back into the wall. The wing pack was a clunky box against his spine, worthless, so he focused on the wrist controls. He had to get something going — missiles, shield, Redwing — or they’d be beyond fucked, and not in the good way, either.

“Anything?” Bucky asked him, mid-reload.

“Booting up again,” Sam reported. “Word from the others?”

“Still ten minutes out,” said Bucky. He leaned away from Sam, took a shot around the corner, and leaned back in. “You wanna retreat?”

“Not an option,” Sam replied firmly. He jabbed at the buttons, frustrated. “We need to hold this ground, or the whole day’s worth nothing.”

“Sam,” Bucky began in a tone that Sam recognized, but a loud _ping_ cut him off. He pulled his metal arm back behind their shelter and rubbed at the black mark that the bullet had left. “Ow.”

“You okay?” Sam asked, glancing up from Redwing’s controls.

“Yeah, just jarring is all,” Bucky answered, shaking it out. “What we need is a distraction. How’s your bird?”

“Almost there,” said Sam. The software reboot was at 97 percent, and — touch wood — it hadn’t started over again. Sam could hear Redwing whirring, so hopefully it wouldn’t be long. “I wish we had some backup to go with it, though,” he added.

“Well, if wishes were hand grenades,” said Bucky. He pulled a few off his belt and gave Sam a look that Sam also recognized.

“No,” he said flatly. “We are not playing Redwing Fetch again.”

“Aw, come on,” Bucky protested, but he put the mini-bombs away, thankfully. “You never let me have any fun.”

“Fun,” Sam scoffed, fiddling with the controls again. Ninety-nine percent, come on. “Fun, he says.”

Bucky laughed, ducked out to make a few more shots, then popped back in to reload. “So what’s the plan, Cap?”

“We need higher ground,” Sam decided, after scoping out the terrain. “You create a distraction, I’ll get Redwing up to that ledge.”

“Then we go to the ledge, too, yeah?” Bucky asked. He was switching guns now — God only knew where he kept them all.

“Eventually,” Sam agreed. “But first let’s make sure Redwing makes it.”

“Grenades would help,” Bucky reminded him, in a last-ditch effort.

Sam had a moment of fierce internal debate before he sighed. “Fine. Redwing Fetch it is. You and your goddamned reckless plans, Barnes,” he muttered.

Bucky laughed. “Hey. Since when have my plans got us in more trouble?”

Sam’s wrist beeped. Redwing was ready to go. “No time for that now,” said Sam. “Cover my bird, we’re going up.”


	24. Breakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve, bed-sharing, antiquing, unexpected revelations; G

“You realize what a stereotype this is, don’t you?” Sam asked when they stopped for lunch. “Two guys, spending a weekend antiquing in Vermont?”

Steve frowned. “But you said you wanted to come with me.”

“Oh, no, of course I do,” Sam corrected himself quickly. “It’s just— I hope you’re prepared for some funny looks when we get to the B & B.”

“Why?” Steve asked innocently.

Sam blinked, astonished, then he remembered that whole frozen-in-ice-for-70-years thing. SHIELD probably didn’t feel the need to brief Captain America on queer customs (real or imagined) when he woke up, so of course Steve was at sea.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. Steve was straight as an arrow, everyone knew that. Straighter, probably. After all, he’d never picked up on Sam’s feelings for him, even though Sam was pretty sure his crush was visible from space — Natasha had told him that just last week, when he announced that they’d be going away for a weekend.

Sam had never spent this much one-on-one time with a guy (or a girl, for that matter) without them trying something, and it was almost disappointing, even though Sam knew that it would only make everything messier in the long run. He was in that awkward place where, if something happened, he would have to come out to Steve and explain... ugh, it was exhausting just to think about. Much easier to ignore his unrequited feelings and be Steve’s friend.

So Sam just smiled and shook his head. “Never mind,” he told Steve, and he assumed that was the end of it.

***

But that wasn’t the end of it. When they finally reached the bed and breakfast — just before sunset, and, boy, people weren’t kidding about Vermont’s autumn foliage — they hit another snag.

“Of course,” said the woman behind the counter when Steve told her his name. She nudged the ledger in his direction and grabbed a key from the cabinet. “You’re in room 10.”

“Great, thanks,” Steve replied, signing the paper. “And my friend?”

The woman’s mouth fell open. She looked at Sam with wide eyes. “I’m sorry?” she said finally.

“I reserved two rooms,” Steve said. “One for me, and one for my friend.” He frowned. “Didn’t I?”

The clerk looked at Sam again, and her cheeks went as red as the leaves outside. “I- I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m afraid I misunderstood. When you said you wanted a room for you and your friend, I just assumed— uh. There’s only one room reserved,” she concluded with a wince.

Sam nodded, unsurprised. Steve gave the employee a wry smile. “I thought the total price seemed small,” he said. “Can we just take another room now?”

The woman shook her head, so apologetic that Sam felt seriously bad for her. “I’m sorry, we’re all booked up tonight, I— I don’t have another room to give you.”

Steve turned to Sam. “What do you think? You want to go somewhere else?”

Sam considered it, then shook his head. They were already here, Steve had already paid, and it was clear that the mistake was an honest one — _told you so,_ Sam’s brain gloated to no one. “It’s just one night, Steve,” he said out loud. “We can share.”

“Okay,” Steve said. His eyes did that weird, lingering thing they sometimes did around Sam, but then he turned back to the clerk and accepted the key.

***

Steve insisted Sam take the bed, because of course he did, but there were more than enough pillows to make him comfortable on the floor. He changed in the attached bathroom, while Sam did the same in the bedroom, and Sam had serious flashbacks to their Bucky hunt — though they always got rooms with two beds when they were on the road. Still, turning out the light, saying goodnight — it all felt familiar, even without the weight of the Winter Soldier hanging over their heads.

Except that Steve started talking as soon as the light went off.

“Sam,” he said quietly, like he was worried that Sam was already asleep.

“Yeah?” Sam answered him.

“That thing you mentioned earlier,” Steve began. “The antiquing in Vermont thing?”

“Yeah?” Sam repeated, apprehensive about where this was going.

“You meant that we’re doing what couples do, right? Guy couples?”

“All couples,” Sam half-corrected him, “but yeah. Guys, girls  — it’s the stereotype.”

“I see,” Steve said thoughtfully. “I’m not gay,” he added a minute later.

Sam suppressed a sigh. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d had conversations like this in the barracks. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell — unless you’re straight, in which case, tell everybody as loudly and proudly as possible. He wondered if Steve was about to start making raunchy comments about every woman they’d passed on the way here, just to prove it. Steve didn’t seem the type; he’d never done that in Sam’s presence, but that could just mean that he knew Sam well enough to know Sam would call him out on it.

Sam found himself tensing, ready to do it, his hands curling up at his sides, and he forced himself to relax and wait, give Steve the benefit of the doubt. After a moment of silence, though, he had to accept that Steve wasn’t going to go on. He exhaled slowly, rolled over on his side so he could see Steve’s shadowy form on the floor.

“Me neither,” he said finally, pushing away the guilty twinge in his stomach — he wasn’t lying, even though it felt like it sometimes.

“No,” Steve said abruptly, shuffling in the blankets on the floor. “No, I mean I’m not gay, but I’m not straight, either. I’m not... anything.”

Steve’s voice — the one that Sam had heard giving clear orders, loud and certain, for over a year now — sounded small and somehow breakable in the dark room.

“At first, I thought it was because I spent so much time... away,” Steve continued, and Sam had to congratulate him silently on the euphemism. “Everything was so different when I woke up, and people are so open about things they’d never— sex is everywhere,” he said, interrupting himself. “And I thought, _oh, now I’ll know._ But....”

“But you still don’t,” Sam concluded for him. He propped himself up on one elbow, and he could see Steve’s head move in a quick nod.

“Right. I don’t— Sam, I think I’m... broken, or something.”

Sam’s chest hurt for him, and his eyes closed in empathy. This was all too familiar, too. “You’re not,” he said, but Steve went on.

“I loved Peggy,” he said vehemently. “Still do. Always will. But that night... she was so beautiful, and she wanted me so badly, but— I couldn’t. And I still don’t know why.” He exhaled a breath that was almost a laugh. “She told me it was silly to wait for marriage in the middle of a war, and I just... it was easier not to correct her.”

Sam wanted to reach out, to get off the bed and sit down on the floor next to him, to take his hand and tell him— everything. But he didn’t want to spook Steve, either. They’d never had a conversation like this before, and he had a feeling that Steve was only talking so much because he knew he could look away.

So Sam settled for inching a little bit closer to the edge of the bed, and draping an arm off the side; Steve could take it if he needed it, and to Sam’s surprise he did so right away, grasping it with the same intensity as he would if he were falling, and Sam were swooping down to catch him.

“Steve,” he said gently. “You’re not broken.”

“Okay,” Steve said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“But believe me when I tell you it feels like that sometimes,” Sam went on. “It took me forever to figure it out. In high school, I had Leila, and, God, the things we used to do. But I felt like I was faking, and eventually she realized it, too.”

“What happened?” Steve asked, still holding on tight.

Sam sighed. It’d been ages since he talked about this. “We broke up. She was good about it. Didn’t start any rumors or anything, though I’d have believed them if I heard them. And then I enlisted, and it was easy just to stay quiet when the guys went on and on about the girls they had back home.”

“That sounds familiar,” Steve murmured.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “A couple of them must’ve thought... well, I don’t know what they thought,” he concluded honestly.

“And Riley?” Steve prompted, after a little pause.

Sam winced. He knew this was coming, but it still hurt. “He loved me,” he said, and he smiled despite the pain, because it was Riley, and Riley always made him smile. “He wanted me, so we fooled around a little when nobody was looking. But it wasn’t right, either.”

“You’re not gay,” Steve summarized.

“No,” Sam agreed. “Not straight, either.” He drew a deep breath, because this was it. “I’m asexual, Steve. And I think that’s the word you’re looking for, too.”

“Asexual,” Steve repeated cautiously, like he was tasting each syllable before he let it out. “Does that mean you can love somebody and not want the sex part?”

“Yeah, kind of,” Sam said. “It’s... complicated, but yeah.”

“I see,” Steve said again. He let go of Sam’s hand. Sam looked, and saw him sitting up, just visible through the bits of streetlight filtering in through the blinds.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked him.

“Yeah,” said Steve, and he let out a breathy chuckle. “Yeah, Sam, I... I am.”

“Okay,” Sam said, relieved. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Steve repeated. “But....”

“What?”

Steve shook his head. “All this time, Sam... I’ve felt like something was supposed to happen.”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I think I kind of love you, Sam,” Steve said in a quiet rush. “But I didn’t know what I was supposed to do about that. How I could tell you, because I’m not gay, and I don’t want to have sex with you, but— what are you doing?”

Sam had crawled down from the bed while Steve was talking, and he was sitting in Steve’s nest of blankets with his back to the mattress. He reached out, found Steve’s hands and clasped them tightly.

“I think I kind of love you, too,” he admitted. It felt good to finally say it out loud. “And I’m not gay, either, and I don’t want to have sex with you.”

“Okay,” Steve said. Sam could make out a smile in the shadowy light, and a second later, he laughed. “Okay.”

“No offence,” Sam told him jokingly. “I mean, you’re gorgeous, but—”

“Like a sunset,” Steve finished, and Sam laughed out loud, too.

“You have no idea,” he said. He felt a strong urge to kiss Steve’s forehead, but he fought it off— any contact could wait until after they’d talked more. Still, though.... “Do you want to sleep in the same bed tonight?” he asked hesitantly.

Steve’s grip slackened like he was going to let go, but then he seemed to reconsider and held on tighter. “I’d like that,” he said quietly.

“Okay,” said Sam. He tugged on their hands, and Steve got up, gathered the bedding. They put the bed to rights, and got under the covers, a careful distance between them for a moment, before Steve sighed and shifted closer.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

Sam wrapped him up in his arms and nodded. “I’ve wanted to do this for ages.”

“Good,” said Steve, yawning. “So good.”

“Mm hmm,” Sam agreed. He could feel sleep pulling at him.

“How come nobody ever told me this was a thing?” Steve asked blurrily a moment later. “Asexuality, I mean.”

Sam opened his eyes again, though they were heavy. “There’s not that many of us,” he replied. “But we seem to find each other. You’d be surprised how many of my friends from college have come out as ace in the last few years.”

“Really,” Steve said, wonder in his voice.

“Really,” Sam said with a yawn that he turned into a nuzzle against Steve’s surprisingly soft hair. “And then there’s you.”

“And then there’s me,” Steve agreed. He made a strange sound that was almost a giggle. “The ace in the hole.”

“Oh no,” Sam half-groaned, half-laughed. “I just opened up a whole new box of dad jokes for you, didn’t I?”

“So many,” Steve agreed, and then, to Sam’s surprise, he kissed the back of Sam’s hand. “But we can talk about it in the morning.”

Sam nodded and let his eyes close again. In the morning, and probably for the next while, there’d be a lot to talk about, but for now, this was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never write fic like this, because they always felt somewhat contrived to me — like a lecture on sexuality disguised as a story. But I've had the idea of an ace/demi Steve in my head for a long time, and he just started talking in the middle of what was supposed to be a silly fic about being forced to share a bed, so here we are. Hope it's okay, and maybe it's even a bit validating for ace folks like me who don't get to see much of themselves in fiction. <3


	25. Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam & Steve, pre-slash, Pixar movies; G

Sam was about to open his work email when he heard a familiar sound — a familiar set of sounds, actually — from the living room. Specifically, he heard a snatch of music, quickly lowered, and a sniff followed by the sound of someone — three guesses who — blowing their nose.

Sam sighed, thought very hard about just ignoring it, then went out into the living room where, sure enough, Steve was bundled up in a blanket on the couch with a box of tissues while the TV flickered with a familiar opening scene.

“Steve,” Sam said, and he waited for Steve to pause the movie before he continued. “This has got to stop.”

“Sorry,” Steve said thickly. “I can watch it in my room if the sound bugs you.”

“It’s not that,” Sam assured him. “It’s just— this is the third time this month. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“I don’t—” Steve began, but he sighed. “It makes me... I don’t know, feel things?”

Sam crossed the room and sat beside Steve on the couch. “I get it,” he said honestly. “But I’m your friend, and I’m worried about you. I think maybe...” Sam exhaled, hesitating, then went on. “I think maybe your emotions could use a little more of a professional outlet than Pixar movies.”

He almost winced as he concluded, as Steve’s expression went a little flat. Sam held his breath, waiting for the angry outburst. Mentally, he was prepping a rebuttal, along with a couple of escape plans, but physically he stayed still and silent.

After a second, Steve’s tight posture loosened up. “Probably,” he admitted.

 _Okay,_ Sam thought, slightly stunned. He hadn’t planned for agreement.

“But can I start that tomorrow?” Steve asked. “For now I just want to....”

His voice was young and fragile; it made Sam lean closer, support Steve with an arm around his shoulders. “Of course,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He patted Steve’s back and made to get up, but Steve stopped him. “Watch it with me?” he asked in a hopeful rush.

Sam considered the offer, nodded. “Sure,” he replied with a smile. “Work emails can wait, I guess.”

Steve grinned and picked up the remote again. “Thank you,” he said earnestly, and he started the film before Sam could reply.

By the end of it, the box of tissues between them on the couch was empty, but Sam felt good, and Steve — well, Steve had fallen asleep with his head on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam smiled down at him, and picked another movie from Steve’s Netflix queue. After all, what were friends for?


	26. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam & Steve, insomnia; G

It was after 2. Sam had finished catching up on his favorite shows (plus re-watched a few episodes just for fun), and he’d even finished the last chapter of a book he’d been putting off for nearly two weeks. (Disappointing, just as he’d feared.)

He tossed it aside and glanced around his bedroom, at the blue-gray walls that were yellow in the lamplight. He sighed, coming to the realization that sleep wasn’t coming, or, if it was, it wasn’t coming any time soon.

Naturally. Tomorrow was Monday — well, technically, today was Monday — and Sam was anxious. Tomorrow — today — he went back to work after a three-day weekend spent Bucky-hunting with Steve. (Also disappointing.)

Sunday nights were the worst. Always had been. Even when he was a kid, Sam remembered lying awake, worrying about school the next day. And now, after coming back from the Middle East, the insomnia had only gotten worse.

He rolled over, sighed, and got up. If he was going to be awake, he may as well do something useful. Shower, maybe. That would save him time (later) in the morning, at least.

But when he opened his bedroom door, he noticed a faint light in the living room. He approached silently, and found Steve reading on the couch by the light of three candles on the coffee table.

Sam cleared his throat softly, not wanting to startle him. When Steve looked up, Sam said, with a tone that was equal parts warm and teasing, “You know we don’t have blackout regulations anymore, right?”

Steve gave him a crooked, familiar smile. “You kids today,” he fake-scolded, shaking his head. As Sam chuckled, he set his book aside and straightened up. “Just didn’t want to keep you awake with a bright light is all,” he said, much more softly.

“Thoughtful,” Sam acknowledged, “but pointless. I can’t sleep anyway. Too much on my mind.”

“Oh,” Steve replied. He grimaced. “Because of the mission?”

“No,” Sam sighed, sinking down beside him on the couch. “I can never sleep on Sunday nights.”

“That must be rough,” Steve commented.

Sam shrugged. “Honestly, I’m mostly used to it by now.”

Steve nodded. “Well, I can’t sleep either, so you’re welcome to keep me company. We could even turn on a real light if you wanted to.”

“Wow,” Sam said, feigning astonishment. “Are you sure? I mean, we’d save so much money on the hydro bill if we switched to candles.”

Steve laughed. “I’m sure.”

“All right then,” said Sam, then he was struck by a sudden thought as Steve reached for the lamp. “Wait. Leave them burning.”

“Okay,” Steve said slowly, lowering his arm. “Why?”

“Atmosphere,” Sam explained, reaching for the remote and turning on the TV. “Has anyone showed you _Buffy_ yet?”

Steve shook his head, looking baffled. “What’s a Buffy?”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Sam said honestly. “You want some popcorn? It’s gonna be a long night.”

It was — but not nearly as long as normal.


	27. Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke/Claire, fluff; G

Claire wasn’t snooping. She _wasn’t._ She was just trying to do something nice and wash Luke’s jeans while he was out punching... whatever was attacking him and his merry band of misfits this week. She’d found laundry was a good way to keep her mind off things — like how much emergency surgery she might have to do when they got back — and if she finished that, she washed dishes, swept the floors, dusted the shelves full of knickknacks — anything, really.

So she wasn’t snooping. It just so happened that when she picked up Luke’s jeans to throw them in the washer, a small spiral-bound notepad fell out. And it just so happened this notepad opened when it landed on the laundry room floor. And it just so happened that there was her name on the page, in a tiny version of Luke’s handwriting.

So she picked it up and looked — because, honestly, who wouldn’t? — and that was how she learned that Luke was even cornier than even she’d been able to to imagine.

 _Claire Cage,_ the page read, followed below by _Claire Temple-Cage,_ followed by _Luke Temple,_ which made her laugh a little. She laid the notepad aside, tossed the jeans in the machine, and reached for the next item in her basket — a heavy, _heavy_ sweater. She patted the pockets, felt a large, square shape.

“No,” she said aloud. “It can’t be—”

But it was. She opened the box — okay, maybe this _was_ snooping after all — and it was.

***

“You are the corniest man I’ve ever met,” she told him when he got home. His eyes widened at the sight of the box and notepad on the table beside her. “And you’re terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Claire,” he said, and it was a question.

“Yes,” she told him.

The word took a second to sink in, but when it did, Luke crossed the room in three strides and grabbed her up out of the chair, wrapping her up in his arms and kissing her — madly, deeply. She laughed into his mouth, and he set her down. When they broke apart, he picked up the ring box and opened it. She tried to feign surprise, but he rolled his eyes and took the ring out, slipping it on her finger.

“How about Luke Temple-Cage?” she jokingly suggested, gesturing at the notepad. “I think that’s my favorite.”

He laughed — that rich, beautiful sound she loved so much. “Luke Temple-Cage,” he repeated. “I could get used to that.”

“So corny,” Claire mumbled, and kissed him again.


	28. Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve, fluff; G

When the power went out, Steve and Sam were at the movie theater, soaking up the air conditioning on one of the hottest days of the summer so far. Sam was actually almost cold, they had it turned up so high; he was regretting his decision to wear shorts, though he knew he’d melt the second he stepped back outside.

The movie was just getting good enough to distract him from the goosebumps on his legs when the screen went abruptly dark. Two teenage girls at the front screamed, then laughed a second later. Emergency lighting clicked on, giving the room a faint yellow glow, and Steve got to his feet, clicking on the mini-flashlight keyring that Bucky had given him for Christmas.

“Anybody hurt?” he asked in that voice of his, which tended to carry.

There were scattered replies — “No,” “We’re fine,” “Who’s talking? I know that voice...” —and Steve shone the light on the steps that led down to the front of the theatre.

Sam could practically hear his brain working, could tell in his body language that he was prepping for catastrophe, planning escape routes for every civilian in the building, too. Sam tried to stop him, since it was likely just a brown-out and nothing to worry about, but Steve was already heading down to the front with his trusty flashlight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a new voice said. Sam looked, saw a second light, held by a short man in a polo shirt. An employee. He didn’t seem to have realized, yet, who the tall white guy was beside him. “We apologize for the inconvenience. There’s been a major black-out in the region, and it’ll be a while before the power comes back, so we have to close. Stop by the box office on your way out for a free voucher to come back.”

The shuffling and talking began at once, as the theater-goers started to get out of their seats and head for the exits. Sam overheard some complaining, naturally, but everyone seemed polite enough. And then there was Steve.

“Right this way, ma’am, watch your step here,” he was saying, as he guided a little old lady down the aisle past Sam’s seat.

Sam rolled his eyes and stood up, gesturing for everyone coming down the stairs to go ahead of him. Steve wouldn’t quit before the theater was empty, so Sam was in no rush.

“You’re too much,” he told Steve in an undertone, when Steve asked if the employees needed any help cleaning up. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Do what?” Steve asked, sounding affronted. “Help people?”

“Be on duty,” Sam corrected him. He  kept his tone gentle, but Steve still gave him a look that was puzzled, bordering on pissed.

“I’m not on duty,” he said as they joined the line waiting for vouchers at the box office. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I know, and that’s great,” Sam assured him. He was regretting having said anything; this conversation could veer into the therapy place if he wasn’t careful. “I’m just saying that sometimes it’s okay to... not,” he concluded with a shrug and a smile. “You know?”

Steve’s frown didn’t go away. “I don’t know,” he said pointedly. “I thought you, of all people, Sam, would understand wanting to help someone.”

“Believe me, I do,” Sam said, suppressing a sigh. “What I mean is, it’s okay to be a civilian sometimes. Just a regular person, out with his guy. No heroics, just a free movie coupon.”

Steve started to argue again, but something stopped him short. “His guy?” he said, a smile beginning to spread across his lips. “You’re my guy, Sam?”

“Of course I’m your guy,” Sam replied, feeling his face heat with embarrassment. “What did you think was going on?”

Steve chose not to answer, instead taking Sam’s hands and interlacing their fingers. All trace of their argument was gone. “My guy,” he repeated.

“Too much,” Sam told him again, but he couldn’t say more, since they’d reached the counter, and the box office attendant was handing them a voucher.

“We’re really sorry about this,” she said. “Hope you can come back.”

“Of course, it wasn’t your fault,” Steve answered. “Is there anything else I can—” He looked at Sam, who raised his eyebrows. “Never mind,” Steve corrected himself. “Have a good afternoon.”

“Well done,” said Sam. He pushed open the door and, as expected, was hit with a powerful wall of heat and humidity. He put on his sunglasses and braced himself to step into the sun. Steve, of course, didn’t hesitate, going right for the car. Driving home would be hell with every stoplight out, but there was no way around it.

“Ooh, look,” Steve said, stopping suddenly. “Half-price ice cream. They must have to get rid of it before it melts. You want some?”

“Absolutely,” said Sam, grateful for any opportunity not to climb in the hot car just yet.

Steve grinned and took Sam’s hand again, leading him across the scorched parking lot. “Getting pretty good at this civilian thing,” he commented.

“Don’t get cocky,” Sam warned him playfully.

“No, that’s later,” Steve said with a wink. “Gotta find something to do in the dark. With my guy.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open in surprise — usually Steve wasn’t quite so mouthy outside the bedroom — but then he shook his head. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Nope,” Steve replied, perfectly cheerful. “Now come on, let’s get ice cream before we get called into work. There might be riots or something.”

“And he’s back,” Sam muttered, but he let Steve buy him copious amounts of ice cream anyway.


	29. Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha/Maria/Sharon, wedding planning; G

Maria handled the invitations, because of course she did. She was in charge of all the normal elements of their otherwise completely un-normal event.

(Three brides. In a field. On Halloween. No clergy. No licence.)

Sharon did the food, because, as she put it, _Hell yes, I want a cheeseburger buffet._ And Natasha — well, Nat’s job was pretty damn important: she got to pick their outfits.

For herself, a black tux with an ivory shirt and green accessories that matched her eyes almost perfectly: pocket square, tie, nails, earrings, and killer heels. She was tempted to get a green witch’s hat, too, what with the date and all, but her best man Sam thought it might be a little on-the-nose. Steve was all for it, because that puppy loved Halloween, but Natasha was going for taste, not tack.

For Sharon, she chose something a little more bridal — not a wedding gown, because she really didn’t want one, but a candy pink ball gown with some serious poof. Of the three of them, Sharon was the one who most liked to femme it up — the girl wore eyeliner to the grocery store, for crying out loud — so Nat felt comfortable going a little overboard.

And then there was Maria. Nat had the hardest time finding a dress for Maria. Not because she didn’t know what Maria liked; Maria even made a suggestion, vague though it was: _Don’t make it look like I’m going to work._ So that eliminated pencil skirts and suits, and God knew she’d kill Natasha if Nat tried to put her in a gown like Sharon’s. Finally, one day when she wasn’t even looking for it, she found the perfect dress. It was a rich, deep brown that shimmered like smoky quartz and brought out the deep tones in her hair and eyes. A column dress, it would accent her height — reflecting the long line of solid strength that Nat saw when she looked at her. She was their core, after all, the one who’d brought Natasha and Sharon together — first indirectly, at SHIELD, and then directly, by falling in love with both of them.

And now they were three, soon to be joined for a year and a day. Natasha couldn’t wait.


	30. Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve (background); T

Sam and Steve have a secret. Or — well, they think they do. Natasha knows better, though. She was there when Steve first met Sam. She was there when they stormed Fort What’s-Its-Name; she saw the way Steve’s eyes lit up like fireflies when Sam put his wings on for the first time. She’s watched them play pool at Tony’s parties. She’s seen Sam take point when Steve asks him to; she’s seen Steve turn to Sam in the field more than anyone else. They respect each other, protect each other, fight for each other. They’re partners. They love each other.

What she can’t figure out is if they’re fucking. Not that it’s any of her business, but Natasha is used to nosing about in things that aren’t her business — she does it for a living. Some people — not to name names, but Tony — have even told her she has boundary issues. Which— pot, meet kettle. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s important is Sam and Steve, and the nature of their relationship and whether or not it’s physical. For both their sakes, she hopes it is. Steve deserves some touch after all those years spent frozen, and Sam— well, Sam strikes her as the type who’d never take anything for himself, a give-away-the-last-scoop-of-his-favorite-ice-cream kind of guy. Steve’s the same way; honestly, they deserve each other in that sense.

But, if they’re sleeping together, they don’t show it. They never kiss — that would make it too easy for her — or hug in any way that couldn’t be called bro-ish, and, besides, Sam touches everyone casually. He lays his hand on Nat’s arm when they’re talking, puts his hand on Bruce’s shoulder to check in after a mission. He even horses around with Clint sometimes. And Steve is similar, though he seems to have a few more hang-ups where women are concerned. So Nat can’t tell if the shoulder clasps, the hugs, the hip nudges as they’re heading off the plane— are these signs of affection between Sam and Steve, or is it just run-of-the-mill, nope-we’re-just-friends touching?

She should just ask, if she’s this curious. It’s what Maria keeps telling her to do, probably because — no, it’s definitely, she’s definitely said this — she’s tired of Nat’s constant pointed looks and whispers of “See? What _is_ that?”

But Nat can’t ask. It’s none of her business. So, she’ll just have to settle for bugging their quarters.

(Boundary issues. What boundary issues?)


	31. Final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Steve, laundry, no powers; G

“This is it,” Sam told Riley proudly as he loaded up the back of his Prius with his full hamper and the bag that contained his detergent, fabric softener, homework, and water bottle.

“This is what?” Riley asked. “Hey, settle down a sec,” he added to Redwing, who didn’t look pleased about his walk being delayed by a human conversation.

Redwing sat, a little reluctantly, and Sam scratched his wing-like ears. “This is the final time I’m going to the laundromat,” he explained, “because this is my final assignment.”

“Ah,” said Riley. “No more all-nighters with the books.”

“Exactly,” Sam agreed. He couldn’t fight the giddy feeling as he closed the hatchback, and he didn’t even try. He practically skipped to the driver’s side door; Redwing barked and hopped with him, trying to get in the car as well.

“You never know,” Riley said, laughing with the effort of holding his dog back. “There’s always the MA.”

“No thanks,” Sam replied. “Once I graduate, I’m done. No more late nights reading, and I’m gonna do my laundry one load at a time like normal people.”

“But you’re not normal people,” Riley reminded him. He gave in to Redwing’s tugs and headed for the sidewalk. “Best stop trying,” he called over his shoulder.

“Takes one to know one,” Sam shot back, because he and Ri really were like a pair of 8-year-olds sometimes.

Riley just waved as he and Redwing made their way down the block. Sam, chuckling to himself, climbed in the car and started the engine.

He’d miss this, he realized, driving the old familiar route to the laundromat. He’d been coming here for four years now, ever since freshman year. The feeling in his chest as he lugged his hamper inside was almost like nostalgia.

As he’d expected, there were only a few machines chugging. He found two empty washers side-by-side and filled them with his first two loads. The coins clinked into the slot the way they always did, and Sam shouldered his bag, about to head to his favorite table by the front window to get started on this essay.

The problem was, there was already someone sitting there. He was blonde, skinny, and had his nose buried in a big, fat novel. A steaming cup of vending machine coffee sat beside him — it smelled awful, Sam wanted some in the worst way — along with a pencil and a notepad with nothing but doodles on it.

Sam hesitated in the center of the room, unsure where he was going. The guy looked up, and Sam realized two things: one, the guy was pretty nice-looking, with angular features softened by long eyelashes behind his glasses. And two, holy crap, he was reading—

“ _Twilight?”_ Sam exclaimed before he could stop himself.

The blonde guy’s — very square — jaw stiffened, and his — sky-blue — eyes narrowed. “It’s for a class,” he ground out. “ _Not_ that it’s any of your business.”

“Sorry,” Sam said automatically. “Didn’t mean to judge.”

The guy made a non-committal noise and buried his nose in the book again. Sam grimaced with the embarrassment of the encounter, but he walked valiantly by the _Twilight_ guy and made it to his second-favorite table in the corner. He shifted the chairs slightly to keep his machines — and the rest of his clothes — in his eyeline. Not that he’d ever had a problem with anyone taking anything, but he really didn’t have the budget to replace his underwear right now.

He opened his laptop — how amazing was it that this place didn’t have wi-fi? — and unloaded the library books and printed journal articles from his bag. Last to come out was his notebook, with its jagged edges and even more ragged notes inside. He opened it fondly and laid it aside, so he could add to the outline as he finished his research.

Soon, he was taking up the entire four-seat table and lost in his work. Writing was its own form of hell, but part of Sam — the part that didn’t think Riley’s suggestion of an MA was all that outlandish — loved it. Wrestling with the text, connecting dots and drawing conclusions, manipulating language to give shape to his complex ideas — if it was hell, then he was a joyful sinner.

The timer on his phone went off, startling him out of his focus. He stood and stretched, his mind still mulling over the words of whatever needlessly-obtuse critic he’d just been reading, and headed to the machines to transfer his clothes to the dryer. He didn’t start the next loads yet, though, just as he didn’t wash more than two at a time; he was going to be here all night, after all.

Walking back to his table, he realized that he was being watched — by _Twilight_ guy, who was pulling an Edward and staring like crazy. Sam bit back a smirk, and, if he swayed his hips a little more than he needed to those last few steps, it was purely coincidence.

He sat back down in front of his work and pulled the latest article closer to him, but he found his focus wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been a minute ago. In fact, he was acutely aware of a scratching sound behind and to his left. He turned, as subtly as he could, and saw that _Twilight_ guy had abandoned the book, opting to sketch instead.

Sam turned to his own work with an internal shrug. If the guy wasn’t going to read what he was supposed to read for class, that was his problem. Sam tuned the noise out and dove back into the research.

He hadn’t gotten very far, though, when another sound interrupted him. A solid smack — a thick paperback hitting the table. _Twilight._

“Hey,” Sam said cautiously, looking up at the blonde guy, who seemed to be skimming the titles of Sam’s stack of library books.

“It’s terrible,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“I’ve heard that,” Sam replied. “Not that I’ve read it myself,” he added hastily, “but—”

“I have to write a paper on it,” the blonde guy added, sinking uninvited into the chair opposite Sam.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said, confused but sympathetic. “What class is it for?”

“Pop culture,” _Twilight_ guy answered. “It’s for my breadth requirement. Everybody said it was easy, but....”

Sam nodded sympathetically. “Sciences?” he asked.

 _Twilight_ guy looked down at himself with a self-deprecating smile. “That obvious, huh?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Steve, and yeah. Med Sci, or— I will be, once I finish this course and graduate.”

Sam shook his hand and introduced himself. “English Lit,” he added.

Steve gestured at the wall of books and papers between them. “Figured.”

“That obvious, huh?” Sam repeated. He chuckled, and Steve joined in, showing off a very nice smile.

“Little bit,” he said, but then he sighed. “Would you mind if I worked here with you? Maybe soak up some of your English major energy?”

Sam considered the offer. He hadn’t planned on having a study buddy, but the guy seemed all right. Cute, if nothing else. And he felt for him, having to read that crap.

“Sure,” he said finally, and he returned the smile Steve was giving him. “But one condition: when you get to the baseball part, no face journeys. I don’t want to get distracted.”

Steve cocked his head curiously. “I thought you said you hadn’t read it.”

“Not saying a word,” Sam muttered, picking up a book to hide his grin.

He heard Steve laugh, and then two of them went back to their reading.

***

“I thought you said you weren’t going back,” Riley said, when Sam put a much smaller load of laundry into his car, along with a novel he was reading for fun, and not for class.

Sam shrugged. “I feel like getting out of the house,” he explained, carefully neutral.

“Uh huh,” said Riley, skeptical. Even Redwing was giving Sam a look that clearly meant, _Come on._ Sam managed (somehow) to keep a straight face and climbed into his car.

If Riley found out that Sam had met someone, he’d never let it go. Best not to say anything for now, at least not until — and Sam’s stomach fluttered a little at the thought — things with him and Steve were a little more official.

Until then, Sam had a date with a washing machine and some (bad) literature.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you want to check out the first drafts of these ficlets, you can find them on my [Tumblr](http://mrsdawnaway.tumblr.com/tagged/inktober-for-writers). Happy Inktober, everyone, see you all next year!


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